


When These Circus Lights Go Out

by Goneahead



Series: Farmhouse: Where Love Has Lived (Hawk-23) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men Evolution
Genre: Age-Of-Ultron-Fix-It-Fic, Gen, How Clint Barton married a girl with claws, MCU home renovation should be a thing, Nothing is ever normal in Marvel including the dog, Russian assassins doing very bad things to people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goneahead/pseuds/Goneahead
Summary: “Fury helped me set this up when I joined.” Because telling the team a half truth is a whole lot easier than explaining why Laura has claws, their dog is a robot, the farmhouse is a secret base, and oh yeah, there's a fuckin' spaceship in the basement.AKA How a Red Room kid, a Weapon X clone, and a ex-carnie became besties.AKA Why the eff does MCU Laura look so much like Evolution's X-23?stand alone but sequel to: 'Decorating is Not a Spectator Sport' AKA Hawkeye Home Reno Edition
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Clint Barton/Laura Kinney, Hawk-23
Series: Farmhouse: Where Love Has Lived (Hawk-23) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980601
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: 1: A while back I wrote ‘Decorating is not a Spectator Sport’ (which you don't really need to read to follow this, but--Hawkeye Home Reno! Just saying). I have now written a sequel based entirely, and improbably, on one burning question. Why does MCU Laura look so much like X-Men Evolution's X-23?
> 
> Note 2: I didn't put a warning on Nat and Ivan's relationship, since there is nothing explicit mentioned in this fic. I do, however, heavily hint that it followed their super effed up canon relationship.
> 
> Note 3: This was betaed at one time, and then I monkeyed with it. So its kind-of-betaed? Um, yeah.

~~+~~  
You know i've swallowed fire  
And i've fallen off the wire  
A million times before  
Are you're asking me  
To show you more love  
More life, more heat  
Are you asking me  
Take you, hold you  
Show you more  
More life, more heat  
If you're asking me  
I'll be there  
When these circus lights go out.  
~Black Lab  
~~+~~

**late spring, the U.S.S. Kennedy:**

Bruised ribs, mild concussion, eighteen stitches--and one soggy cast.

Also? This medical corpsman had treated him before. Twice.

Because, yeah, he was on a ship _and_ stuck in sickbay--again. It wasn’t that Clint really minded sickbay--the navy gave out good drugs, too--but it'd be nice to see something other than the ceiling of an aircraft carrier. At least once.

“OK." The medical corpsman finished wrapping the new cast. ”You know the drill; don’t move your arm until the plaster sets.” She checked the IV and left.

Clint let his head fall back against the padding of the exam table as the narcotics turned the pain into a distance haze.

This day? Totally and absolutely _sucked._ Everything had gone to hell at five in the morning with Agent May getting captured, and now it was two the _next_ morning, and--

Why did every sickbay ceiling have holes where light fixtures had been changed out? Did they just randomly decide to put in new lights now and then?

Or were all navy ships just really, really old?

The door to the exam room opened. Clint turned his head, expecting to see the corpsman.

Instead, Coulson walked in--dressed in yet another one of those gray suits. He opened the folder he was carrying, “Agent Barton, I'd like to speak to you about your report.”

_Yippee._

Time to go over his report for the _third_ time.

Also? He was seriously under-dressed, in boxers and a half-set cast.

“I’m impressed." Coulson didn’t look impressed. He looked unhappy. “Not only did you and May apprehend the fugitives, you also uncovered and subsequently destroyed a major base of operations for one of China's most dangerous terrorist groups, a group with--”

“Weapons of mass destruction?"

“I was actually going to say, a weaponized virus, but yes." He frowned at the report. "So--how exactly did the Russians become involved?"

"I contacted them." OK, he'd called in a favor from an ex-boyfriend, but--close enough.

"You contacted the Russians," Coulson was still frowning, "to help with a covert U.S. op in a Chinese autonomous zone?"

"Well, sir, we needed backup and I figured, you know, Mexico."

"Mexico?"

"If somebody called the U S. army and said there were terrorists parked with bioweapons in Mexico, we'd have troops down there, like, yesterday."

"I--see your point." Coulson looked at him for a long moment, then glanced back down at the pages in the folder. "And the female--could you describe again how you found her?"

Same question the last guy had asked. Right down to 'female'.

"Her name is Laura." It was weird how nobody would say Laura's name. Weird--and kind of creepy.

Coulson looked up. And frowned. "I think it would be best if we didn't discuss--"

"Her name is _Laura_ \--sir."

Coulson frowned more. "She told you her name was Laura."

It was more of a statement than a question. Clint answered anyway. "Yes." He hesitated, then went ahead and asked--he could always blame the drugs. "Sir? Who is she?"

Coulson looked at him. And then continued to look at him. Finally, he spoke. "Congratulations, Agent Barton--you have just been promoted to Level Four. Because what I’m about to tell you is highly classified. Captain Rogers wasn't America's only super soldier. During the Cold War, the army had another program; a soldier called Weapon X. The project was halted when it became clear Weapon X was mentally unstable and a danger to himself, and to others. After the program was shut down, certain files and samples went missing."

He closed the folder. "Two years ago, a team of marines were inserted to take out what we believed to be a biowarfare lab. What they found, instead, was the lab had been making clones using those stolen samples."

Clones?

That was impossible.

But--

It did explain things.

Like the claws. And the fact nobody seemed to believe his report.

"So, Laura, she's a clone of this Weapon X?" Because yeah, that didn't sound nuts. At all.

"We're running DNA to confirm a match, but yes. The rest of the clones were destroyed, but one escaped. X-23." Coulson crossed his arms, tucking the folder under his left bicep. "X-23 killed five men, and incapacitated three others. I am telling you this because you need to realize just how dangerous X-23 is--and why your report makes no sense."

Clint turned his head, eyeing the guy. His report made complete sense--well, except the naked woman with claws part. "What do you mean?"

"Two years ago, Weapon X-23 was seven years old, and mute." Coulson was back to frowning, "The doctors estimate the female--Laura--is at least 18 years old."

~~+~~

**late fall, Paris:**

Sometimes, Natasha dreamt. Mostly, she remembered.

_White._

_The white whirl of falling snow._

_His uniform, smelling of cinders and tobacco._

_She pressed her face deeper into the scratchy warmth of wool, her throat raw from--_

Nat woke with a jerk, mouth full of pillow. She propped herself up on one elbow and blinked at the afternoon sun streaming in through the window of her Paris hotel room.

~~+~~

**late spring, China - Ningxia Autonomous Zone:**

_Shitshitshitshitshit!_

Clint fumbled for the nearest door knob with his good hand, and half-stepped, half-fell into the room.

Scratch that, lab.

_Ow!_

Make that _dimly lit_ lab.

He limped over, wedging himself in the shadows behind an enormous cryovac unit. Hunkered down, hugging his aching ribs with his one good arm. A couple of seconds later, an entire troop of soldiers--Clint held his breath--marched past the door and down the hall. He sagged against the cryovac in relief.

So--he'd managed to find a way inside and found a weapon, and he'd found a way to call in the cavalry.

Sort of.

Now he just had to find May, free her, and fend off, like, a gazillion soldiers until the cavalry arrived.

Wait--

_Why was the light blue?_

Clint got to his feet, edged cautiously around the other cryovac.

_What the--_

The dim bluish glow was coming from a large glass tube standing upright at the back of the room. Inside a naked woman floated in some sort of thick blue liquid.

He circled the glass tube slowly.

She was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her eyes were closed and an odd looking breathing mask covering most of her face. A few IV lines swirled around her, pumping different colored fluids into her veins. He glanced at the tube's main panel, which looked surprisingly old. 

As in WWII old.

Clint looked back up at her.

Seriously, what the fuck?

He was--had been--a RAT. Despite all the media bullshit about weapons of mass destruction', there were normally three kinds of underground labs.

One - Chemicals and gas, to kill lots of people. 

Two - Bacteria and viruses, to kill lots of people. 

Three - Illegal drugs, to sell for money, to buy weapons--to kill lots of people.

Naked blue gel women? Definitely _not_ a way to kill lots of people--

A door opened, and two soldiers strode in.

_Shitshitshitshitshit!_

Clint pulled his weapon, firing as he dived for safety behind a cabinet.

There was a gurgle and a thump, and the second soldier swore in German.

One down. One to go.

Clint took a deep breath, then popped his head out, fired again.

The other soldier went down with a scream, his gun wildly spraying the room with bullets.

_Shit!!!!!_

Clint dived for the floor--CRACK! He looked up, and oh _fuckshitfuck_ , a fucking bullet must've hit the tube's glass.

POP! The control panel began crackling and sparking.

Uh--

A rippling arc of electricity suddenly shot upward. BOOM!!! Exploding water and glass rained down.

_Owowowow!_

Stuff finally stopped hitting him and Clint raised his head slowly--and blinked. Naked Woman was lying on the floor, frantically trying to pull off the breathing mask.

"Hey, here, let me help." He scrambled over, grabbed one of her hands, got a wild-eyed glare. "Easy, OK? I got it." He let go and fumbled his knife out, one-handed, slashed the strap.

She pulled off the mask--and sprang at him.

_Ow!!!_

__

The back of his skull hit the wall, and then Clint found himself pinned, two knives at his throat.

No, not knives, claws.

Wait--claws?!

"Stop! I just helped you!"

Naked Woman growled, but let go. She backed off a few feet, and glared.

OK, so she understood English. Because, yeah, that _totally_ made sense.

Naked Woman suddenly cocked her head, stopped glaring. As if she heard something.

Uh oh.

Clint slowly, carefully, pulled his weapon out--

\--and a dozen soldiers poured through the door.

_Fuck!!!_

Clint dived for the floor again.

Naked Woman sprang at the soldiers, a moving blur of kicks and punches and slicing claws.

_Holy shit._

OK--scratch that. Naked blue gel women? Were fucking _lethal._

He raised his weapon, picked off two soldiers that were left, and Naked Woman dropped the last soldier with a snap kick to the jaw.

Who are you?" Naked Woman walked over a body, not bothering to look down at where she was stepping. "You are not one of them."

"No, I'm--" Clint stopped, because he still had no idea which agency he'd just joined, "uh, American. My name's Clint, Clint Barton."

"The doctor--" Naked Woman's expression changed, the first flicker of real emotion in her eyes, "she called me Laura."

~~+~~

**late fall, Paris:**

Nat sat down on the park bench and opened her book.

It was a chilly fall day in Paris. Kids and moms swirled around her in their bright jackets. A couple strolled by, fingers intertwined.

She pretended to read.

The minutes trickled by.

She saw the child and nanny first, then Tatiana. The child wore a yellow dress, a red jacket. The nanny followed, shapeless in a black coat, serviceable brown walking shoes. Tatiana was dressed simply, but impeccably. Gray wool jacket, tailored white dress, matching heels.

Nat flipped a page. And another.

Tatiana sat down next to her. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her hair and makeup flawless. Nat could smell her perfume, something light and floral. "Natalia." It almost sounded like a question.

Nat kept her head down, eyes on the book. "I'm only here for some information."

"I see." For the first time since she'd spotted Nat, Tatiana relaxed.

It was enough.

Nat thrust the hat pin through the ear, into the brain. She pulled the bloody pin out, tucked it neatly into the paperback in her lap.

Kids chased each other around the slide. The nanny stood, her back to Nat, watching the child climb the ladder. Tatiana's mouth worked for a moment, then she slumped backwards. 

A minute, maybe two, until somebody noticed.

Nat dropped the book into her purse, got to her feet. She placed her hands in her jacket pockets, strolled out of the square.

Four down.

Eight to go.

~~+~~

**early spring, China - Ningxia autonomous zone:**

Of course, Agent Melinda May not only freed herself, but she also wound up having to circle back for him--and Laura. It'd be funny as hell if they weren't currently pinned down, and running out of ammo.

"I'm out." May lowered her weapon, wiped blood out of her eyes. "You?"

Clint started to poke his head up, ducked when a bullet hit the wall above him. I got half a magazine."

Laura frowned, then slowly, almost reluctantly, handed over the second rifle she had taken. "There are five bullets left."

May gave Laura another long look, and Clint wondered again if she recognized Laura--or if it was the whole Laura-naked-thing. May took the rifle with a small nod, "All right. Here's what we--"

There was the sudden sound of automatic gunfire and the soldiers who had them pinned down began screaming. Then more gunfire.

One of the screams cut off abruptly.

That's when Clint heard it. Russian.

A big, booming voice that could only belong to one person.

Relief swept through him. He lowered his weapon, poked his head up. _"What took you so long?"_

Sasha grinned back at him, while his team fanned out to secure their position. _"Your Russian is still horrible, Malysh."_

"You called the Russians?!" May hissed at him.

"He's a friend. And the Russians are closest." Clint whispered back, glancing over at Laura. He didn't think he could pass her off as 'normal' but he had to try. "Play along, OK. No claws." He pushed himself to his feet, careful to point his weapon at the ground. Sasha's team tended to be trigger happy. "The bioweapons I told you about are the next level up. There's some cryovacs, too--but I didn't check what was in them."

Sasha started to give his men orders, stopping in mid-sentence when Laura and May stood up.

"We also freed this prisoner." He looked over at Laura, praying she wouldn't do anything--well, weird. Bad enough she was standing there naked. Naked and bloody. "There are four people locked in her former cell. They're wanted fugitives."

He kept his voice casual, hoping this would work. Sasha's men preferred to travel light, and they didn't like to deal with anything--or anyone--that would slow the team down.

Sasha looked from him to May. "You are working with Barton now?"

He is working _for_ me, Alexander." May used Sasha's full name, her tone cool.

"You should keep two eyes on this one, May. He makes trouble." Sasha barked more orders at his men. Then he turned back towards them. "These prisoners? You will take them?"

"Yeah, I guess." Clint said it as reluctantly as he could. "Any chance we can get a lift to the nearest ship?" It was a reasonable request--there were always a few U.S. Navy ships hanging out in this part of the world.

Sasha considered this for a moment. "Only if you take the girl, too."

Laura scowled, but didn't move, and Clint nodded, careful not to show his relief. "Deal."

~~+~~

**late fall, Belgium:**

_The studio was freezing, another Russian winter pushing through the cracks in the dirty window panes. Nat followed the other girls in, took her usual place at the bar. She began stretching, muscles tight from the bitter cold._

_Tatiana was stretching too, her hands only inches from Nat's._

_Nat tried to ignore her, focusing instead on--_

_"War's over, kid."_

_She let go of the bar, whirled._

_Ivan pushed off from the wall. He took a drag on his cigarette, gave her a mirthless smile. "Doesn't mean we soldiers can go home, does it?"_

Nat blinked at the memory, her face pressed against the cold glass of the train window. The shake and rattle of the car felt familiar, almost like a memory.

_Ivan._

She wondered now if he'd always been there. A ghostly shadow in the back of her dreams, the vague sense of something missing from her memories--until Oslo.

One glancing blow to the head and suddenly she felt like she was going crazy, memories flooding in--

Nat sat up, fingers running through hair dyed blonde. Her memories of the Red Room had always been pieces of shattered glass; tiny shards that made sense, no matter how many times she held them up to the light.

But--since Oslo, she _remembered_.

She remembered the Red Room. But she also remembered years of practicing for the ballet, though her legs and feet did not show the scars of such hard training.

She remembered being a frightened child, hiding in the arms of a soldier in an army uniform. She remembered Ivan, his smile, his laugh, the smell of his cigarettes. She knew he didn't like onions and hated the Germans and--

The train began to slow for the next station.

Nat shoved the memories away, grabbed her coat and her book bag. She slipped into the corridor, blending into the milling crowd of students. She'd already stolen an ID, a dorm room, some classes. All she needed now was the opportunity to get close to her next target.

Four down; eight to go.

~~+~~

**late spring, Iowa:**

The Quinjet's engines kicked into reverse.

Clint jerked out of his half-doze. He started to straighten, stopped as a tinge of pain pushed through the haze of painkillers.

In the dim lights of Quinjet's interior, Laura's eyes darted toward him, then away.

He _knew_ that look. And if it were him?

He'd run.

Because--yeah.

Hey." He waited until she looked back at him. "One month. Just give it one month, OK?"

She didn't reply. Huddled in his sweatshirt, her feet tucked under her, Laura looked like she was nine or ten, instead of twenty.

Then again, maybe she really was nine or ten.

"Barton? We're landing now." The pilot at the controls--Hill?--set the Quinjet down with the same easy confidence she'd used on the take off three hours ago.

Clint wondered about that; the pilot didn't look much older than twenty herself.

Also? None of his business.

The ramp lowered, showing nothing but dark fields and endless night sky.

Iowa. _Fuuuuuck._

Clint fumbled at the buckle of the harness, got to his feet. He tugged at the sling's strap where it cut into his neck, then grabbed his go bag with his good hand, headed down the ramp. Laura silently followed.

A minute later, the ramp folded back up, and the Quinjet took off.

Clint turned, looking across the fields towards the farmhouse. Several windows were lit up and the porch light was on. It looked like one of those stupid paintings.

Iowa.

As in _Iowa._

Fan--fucking--tastic.

Well, he was only stuck here until Fury showed up--or until Laura ran.

He glanced over at her.

Laura scowled back, but edged closer.

Clint sighed and began trudging towards the farmhouse. They were halfway there, when Laura stopped in the middle of the field, tipped her head back.

Clint stopped, too. 

_How long had she been locked up in a lab? When was the last time she'd seen stars?_

"You see those four stars? How they make a box?" He pointed to the same stars his brother used to point to. "That's the Little Dipper."

Instead of answering, she scowled and started walking.

Clint sighed. Again.

He didn't get it.

No, he _did_ get it.

Three days. She'd only known him for three days.

There was no way he'd trust anybody he'd only known for three days.

Hell, he still didn't really trust anyone, cept maybe other RATs. And the folks in--

_Oh._

_Oh, holy shit._

The farmhouse? Was beautiful.

Custom-planed wood, beautifully carved molding. He squinted up, trying to see the carving on the corbels in the dark.

Also? Not really a farmhouse.

Clint followed enough renovation blogs to know that much. Well, OK, it was a farmhouse _now_ \--but the person who'd built the place must've had some major cash lying around. 

It needed to be painted.

Badly.

And one end of the porch was sagging.

He wondered if it was a foundation problem or rotten boards or --

The front door opened.

Agent Cohen was _not_ what Clint was expecting. She was tiny, silver-haired, and leaning on a cane. "You're here. Finally." Her smile was warm and friendly. "Watch your step; there's a couple of loose boards."

Laura picked her way to the porch, and scowled some more. "What is this place?"

Agent Cohen's smile widened, "It's a safe place. Come in--I know it's late, but I made dinner. You're hungry, right?"

~~+~~

**late fall, Belgium:**

Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov.

Nat stared up at the ceiling, listening to the steady breathing of her roommate, sleeping an arm's length away in the cramped dorm room.

Today she'd found him.

She should've stayed focused on the next target, but the university was old and sprawling; it's network an antiquated mess. Easy enough, even with her limited skills. Easy to access the backdoors of a few programs; while hiding her identity in the chaos that was the university's user database. Three lines in a hospital record dated May 5th, 1943.

_Ivan Petrovich. Died 4:12 am. No family._

It was proof. Proof she wasn't crazy. Or--

Maybe she was.

Nat closed her eyes. She could smell the tobacco and ash, feel the press of wet wool against her cheek.

_It was the bullet Ivan had taken at Sevastopol--it had finally killed him._

Her breath caught in her throat, and Nat opened her eyes, staring up into the dark.

~~+~~

**early spring, Iowa:**

The smell of coffee pulled Clint from sleep. He cracked one eye open--and then remembered.

_Laura._

He sat up, grunting as bruised ribs protested. The nest of blankets she'd made in the corner was empty. But--surely Agent Cohen would've woken him up if Laura had fled. 

Probably.

He got to his feet with another grunt, padded to the bathroom to pee. 

OK, list. 

Pants.  
Painkillers.  
Coffee. 

And carpet. If this was his house, he'd rip up the wall-to-wall carpet. No way a beautiful house like this should ever have carpet. Ever. Luckily, it wasn't his place, 'cuz sanding and restoring wooden floors? Was a _bitch._

Clint washed his one good hand, started to wipe his palm on a towel, stopped when the towel rack wobbled. He checked, and yup, the anchor bolt was pulling out of the plaster. 

Loose tile, too.

Wow, this place could use some work. He ran a finger over the chipped porcelain sink, touched the mirror. The medicine cabinet was old and well made, but beginning to rust-- 

His dream suddenly came back to him. He'd been huddled against Barney, and his brother had been singing to him. Clint snorted at the idea of Barney singing--then immediately swore, because hello, _bruised_ ribs. 

He went back into the bedroom, wriggled out of his boxers and into a pair of sweats. He looked at the bag, decided he would deal with getting into a shirt _after_ coffee. He rummaged through his bag, found his pain meds--aww, fuck.

Childproof lid.

But-- 

There were _two_ people downstairs who could open it for him. 

_If_ Laura was still here. 

Clint made his way down the stairs, mentally adding other stuff to the list. A loose riser, a couple of missing spindles. One of the hall sidelights was cracked and the light fixture hanging from the ceiling was modern and tacky _and_ ugly. 

And the carpet. 

The stupid carpet _had_ to go. 

Scratch that. The stupid carpet _and_ the stupid wallpaper. Somebody had added striped wallpaper in the hall, and it was too colorful and too modern. The whole place in fact, looked like it had been updated in the eighties-- 

He stopped walking as he caught a glimpse of Laura through one of the windows. Clint backtracked, stepped out onto the porch. 

She was curled up on a bench, nose in a book. 

So she did know how to read--she'd only been pretending she couldn't back on the ship. "Laura?" 

She looked up. 

"Um," He held out the painkillers. "Open? Please?" 

"Yes." She laid the book down, took the bottle. She read the directions, unscrewed the lid. Handed the pill bottle back. "Clint? I promise." 

"Promise?" He shook out two pills, then shook out two more. There was no reason to have a job with Uncle Sam unless he could enjoy a legal high now and then. 

"I will stay. One month. Like you asked." 

Clint dry swallowed the pills, eyed her. 

She wasn't glaring. 

Or scowling. 

Or glaring _and_ scowling. And she'd said his name, for the first time, like, since they'd met--three days ago. 

"OK." He let her take the bottle, put the lid back on. "Want to tell me what changed your mind?" 

"I thought you were lying, but you were telling the truth." Her eyes were guarded. "This is a real house." 

_Shit._

Of course. 

She must've thought he was dragging her off to another lab--while probably half-hoping maybe this time things would be different. Because it was never the lies. Or even the people kicking you in the teeth while they lied to you. 

It was the stupid, stupid hope. 

No matter how bad things got, it was impossible not to hope that maybe, just once, things might turn out OK. 

"Look." He moved the book--Black Beauty--sat down next to her. Pushed down the ache in his ribs from the movement. "When I was younger, I made some choices, some bad choices. And this guy we're waiting for? He gave me a chance when nobody else would. He's not going to lock you back up in some lab." 

Laura stared down at her hands, "Agent Coulson said the army wants to kill me." 

"Yeah, well, that's why we're laying low until Fury shows up." 

"Clint?" She looked back at him, her eyes still guarded. "I did something bad, didn't I. Before?" 

He had to ask, even though his gut told him he was going to regret it. "Before?" 

"Before I was wiped." She said it matter-of-factly, as if it was an everyday sort of thing. "What did I do this time?" 

_Wiped?_

_This time?_

As in--mind wiped? 

She was still looking at him, waiting. 

Because, yeah--the truth. He took a deep breath. "You killed some men, Laura. Some marines. 

He expected horror, but instead she tilted her head, her expression confused. "But, that is what I am made to do."

~~+~~

**winter, Belgium:**

The night was icy cold and dark, a nearly full moon obscured by thick clouds. Nat could feel her breath hanging in the frosty air as she threaded through the dark and abandoned factory. She'd only been here twice, but her feet unerringly found and followed the path she'd mapped out.

She stopped in the middle of the factory's main room, pivoted left. Carefully, carefully, she counted steps.

Twenty, twenty-one.

Glass crunched under her boots.

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

Something scurried away in the dark.

Twenty-eight. Two steps left--

Stop.

She knelt and reached out, fingers questing through icy, wet leaves--and found it. The rough lip of the shaft. The plans had said the shaft was 75 feet deep--but Americans always exaggerated, so maybe 40 feet.

Deep enough.

Nat pulled out the rough scrap of material she'd torn from a bed sheet then stuffed into a rain gutter. It was now rumpled and soiled, and she had to smooth the cloth before laying it across the opening.

She stood, took two steps right, and checked her work. In the thick shadows the sheet blended with the concrete, hiding any evidence of the hole.

Perfect.

Nat counted her steps back to the door of the room, settled a shoulder against the door frame.

Bits of memory pushed through. _Ivan and her, crouched in the ruins of a cavernous building. He smelled of wet wool and gun oil and sweat. Dawn's first light played across the scarred wooden floor--scattering colors from the broken stained glass windows over her hands._

_Her hands--holding a rifle. It was dusk, the fading light turning the church's splintered pews into jagged shadows. She was the one who stank, of blood and diesel fuel._

_Somewhere overhead there was the drone of planes, the Luftwaffe returning--_

Car engine.

Nat snapped back to the present. She slowed her breathing, listening. A few minutes later, she heard it. The hollow strike of boot heels on concrete, echoing through the dark.

Zhanna.

She tensed, listening as the footsteps came closer and close. Zhanna had been sharpened by her time in the world--becoming far more cautious, far more street smart. Nat hadn't been able to get close enough, so--tonight was her only chance.

And then--

Seven more to go.

~~+~~

**early spring, Iowa:**

Clint stepped back into the house, and his gaze went straight to the carpet. Seriously, what idiot carpeted the hall _and_ the stairs of such a beautiful old house? He patted the door frame with his good hand. "I'm sorry, girl."

That's when he saw it--or rather, he figured out what was nagging at him.

The stairs were wrong.

They were well made, probably of old heart pine--but sturdy and functional. The stairs didn't fit with the beautifully carved porch. He closed the door, leaned against it.

He measured the length and width of hall--

Got it.

The house had once been smaller--and had faced east, not west. The bottom half of the stairs had been flipped to face the other way, towards the new front door. Which meant the front parlor must've once been the old back porch.

Maybe a sleeping porch?

That would explain the low ceiling. And the hall--

Had been narrower. The stairs used to butt up against the wall of the original house. Someone widened the hall, then added another set of rooms on the other side of the hall.

He pushed off the door.

_Ow._

Clint winced at the twinge that pushed through the painkiller haze, and turned.

The single door on either side was wrong, too. The space only made sense if there'd once been a set of double doors on each side of the foyer, with maybe transoms above.

Probably altered by the same idiot that picked out the super ugly wallpaper. The moron had gotten rid of the original doors in the foyer--and probably come up with the brilliant's idea of carpeting over the floors.

So--list.

Rip up the carpet.  
Fix the spindles and the riser.  
Find some doors and transoms that made sense for such a great space.

And--

He raised his eyes, looking at the ugly dropped ceiling and the ugly ceiling tiles and the super ugly modern light. He could imagine what the space would look like with its original high plaster ceilings--

No. This was _not_ his house.

"You deserve better." Clint patted the door frame one more time, and followed the smell of coffee through the front parlor, into the tiny sitting room, and then into the even tinier kitchen.

"Good morning, Clint. I hope you slept well." Agent Cohen--Lila--was dipping bread into batter. "I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, and I'm making French toast. It's your favorite, right?"

"Um, yes." Clint poured himself a cup of coffee, trying to remember if he had mentioned French toast last night. He didn't think he had--  
The sink was still dripping.

"You know, I can fix that." He took a swallow, and _oh holy shit_ , he loved people who bought expensive coffee.

"I know, you offered to fix it last night--twice. I also told you I don't ask people with broken arms to take care of my plumbing problems." Lila dunked another slice of bread into the batter, laid both slices in the pan. "Shouldn't you be wearing your sling?"

"I don't need it."

"Mmhmm. You might want to follow your doctor's orders." She checked the flame under the pan, "She does have a medical degree, you know."

Clint set the cup down. How did Lila know the ship's head doc was a woman--oh. Coulson must've sent over his medical file.

"Why don't you sit down? Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

"Thanks." Clint went into the dining room, sat down.

It was just--strange.

They'd arrived at nearly ten last night because of an unexpected delay and Lila'd had a hot dinner waiting. Then the French toast this morning, and…

 _Get a grip, Barton._

Lila was a nice old lady.

Who somehow knew he liked French toast.

He took another sip of his coffee--and his dream came back to him.

_Cold._

_The orphanage was so, so cold and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't get warm, and he couldn't stop coughing and then his brother was there. Wrapping him in another blanket, holding him._

_Singing._

_It was the same song Mom always sang when she tucked him in._

Not a dream.

A memory.

He'd forgotten. Forgotten how Barney liked to hum that song, and how Mom used to sing it and then she would tuck him in and--

"I hope I didn't make too much." Lila set a tray groaning with food on the table. "Nick says I need to learn to cook for civilians now I'm retired, but I'm afraid I spent too many years cooking for an army. Guess you can't teach an old cook new tricks."

"You were a cook?" Clint picked up a fork, speared a piece of French toast. "I thought you were an agent."

Lila laughed, "Only on paper. Even SHIELD marches on its stomach. Oh, there's the phone." She hurried out of the room, talking to herself. "That'll be Ruby or Mabel, checking to see why I wasn't at bingo last night."

_Bingo?_

Clint made a mental note to ask her about the next bingo game as he took a bite--oh, oh fuuuck. He took another bite, and moaned. It was so damn goooood. Hell, it was even better than the French toast that Suzie, Ed's wife, made.

He scarfed down two slices, and reached for the bowl piled high with eggs. Eggs scrambled with cheese and--sausage?

He dug his fork in, and that's when Laura appeared in the door, hugging her book to her chest. Her gaze was laser focused on the food.

"Hungry?'

She shook her head, "I ate. Before you woke up."

There it was again. That reluctance to admit she was hungry.

It made something twist in Clint's chest--an odd, fierce protectiveness that he wasn't used to feeling for--or towards--anyone. "Go, grab a plate. I can't eat all of this."

She eyed him for a second then disappeared back into the kitchen.

He quickly added, raising his voice, "And a fork."

Not that he had any business nagging anybody about table manners, but Coulson was right. Laura needed to start behaving like--well, a normal person.

Instead of a dangerous super-soldier clone. At least, Coulson said she was dangerous--but then he'd packed her off to a remote farmhouse.

To be babysat by a guy with a broken arm.

And a retired cook.

Clint frowned, helping himself to more eggs. It made no sense. If she was half as dangerous as--

Laura reappeared with a fork and a plate, sat down across from him. And immediately popped one claw, snagged a piece of French toast.

"Laura--"

He got an eye roll, but she dropped the toast on her plate and sheathed the claw. Picked up her fork. "Happy?"

"Yeah, but remember what Coulson told you--"

He got another eye roll.

"Three bites; lay your fork down." She stuffed in three enormous bites of French toast, balanced the fork on the edge of her plate. She chewed for a minute, swallowed. "There are tools in the barn. I checked."

"Tools?"

That earned him a third eye roll. "Tools. The kind you use to fix sinks." Laura held her hand up, making a snapping motion like she was holding a puppet. "There are three in the barn."

It took Clint a moment to figure out what she was trying to say. "You mean a plumber's wrench."

"Plumber's wrench." She rolled the words around in her mouth. "The sink leaks, too. Lila mopped this morning, but said not to tell you."

"Except you're telling me."

For the first time since he'd met her, Laura smiled. A small, conspiratorial smile. "Yes--because you can fix the sink, right?"

"Probably, if I got the right tools." He held up his casted arm. "But I only have one hand, so you'll have to help."

She stopped chewing mid-bite, and stared at him.

Clint laughed at her shocked expression. "Guess you've never fixed a sink before, huh?"

She shook her head and another small smile stole across her face, "But--I can learn."

~~+~~

**winter, Belgium:**

As the train pulled away from the station, Nat tucked her cold feet under her.

She could still hear Zhanna's scream. It reminded her of something--

_Her hands, slick with blood. She pressed down harder on the German's soldier broken leg; Ivan grinning as the prisoner screamed again--_

Nat opened the book with enough force to crack the spine. She found her place, forced herself to begin reading the next chapter.

~~+~~

**one week later, Iowa:**

Fortified by coffee and yet another enormous breakfast, Clint stepped out onto the back porch. A cool front had come in. The morning air was chilly and he was glad Lila'd nagged him into wearing a coat. He stood for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the smell of new plantings in the fields beyond.

He'd missed this. The cabin was great, but there was always something missing and now he knew it was. Deep down, he was still a kid from Iowa.

And weirdly, he was OK with that.

Well--mostly OK with it.

He went down the steps, circled back to the front of the house--and smiled. The porch was still being held up by the jacks he had borrowed from the neighbor down the road, but the front steps were finished and the new footings poured. It was just a matter of attaching the posts to the footings.

He did good work.

Scratch that, _they_ did good work. Laura'd done most of the physical stuff and he'd done the pain-in-the-ass stuff. Like measuring and math and planning. Well, he'd stolen the plan from a blog, but still--

They did good work.

There was a low spot right behind the front steps. Over the years, standing water had rotted away the steps and several of the posts that supported the porch. There were all kinds of expensive ways to fix the problem, but the cheap fix was a poor man's French drain.

They'd dug a big hole where the low spot was, filled it half way with gravel, then dug a sloping trench to another part of the yard. There, they had dug another hole and filled that hole halfway with gravel.

Finally, they'd laid a long piece of PVC pipe in the trench, and buried each end of the pipe by filling both holes with more gravel. Gravity did the rest, channeling the water from the first hole into the pipe and then down into the second hole.

So, yeah. Cheap, and surprisingly, fairly easy.

Laura was strong, scarily strong. She'd dug the holes and the trench in half the time it would've taken him. Clint directed and measured--and somehow bought enough pipe and gravel and wood and concrete during his one trip to the hardware store, and honestly, that? Should go into the Guinness book of world records.

He'd never made just one trip into town for any project.

Ever.

The hardest part of the project had been replacing the posts and the steps. They'd removed the rotted wood, dug out the old footings, poured new concrete footings, and finally, rebuilt the front steps. Clint could've done it faster, half-assed it--but he'd wanted to do it right.

It was also fun teaching Laura carpentry.

Well--mostly fun.

She'd gotten pissed off two days into the project and sliced an electric drill in half, but then again, he'd gotten so mad working on the cabin, he'd once thrown a hammer through the sheetrock in the bathroom.

Nobody was perfect--though it sucked she'd destroyed the better of the two drills.

Laura came around the corner of the house at that moment, scowling. "She made me wash the dishes. You don't have to wash dishes."

"Because I can't get my cast wet." Secretly, Clint agreed with Lila. It was good for Laura to learn how to do chores--even the ones she hated. "You ready to help me put in the posts?"

"Sure--just, no more digging."

He grinned at the way she wrinkled her nose when she mentioned digging. "Trust me, digging? Doesn't suck half as bad as sanding floors."

She tilted her head, scrunching her nose up again, this time in puzzlement. "Why would you sand floors?"

~~+~~

**early spring, Berlin:**

After Oslo, she'd made her choice, but--Nat still felt it.

Alone.

She shuffled forward, held out her plate with trembling hands.

Assassins were loners, and yet, there was always the faceless others to depend on. A team of people whose job it was to find Nat shelter, weapons, transportation. Now it was just her, and she needed money--money and food.

The spoon dropped meat and sauce onto her plate. The scent reminded her of--

She couldn't remember.

One of the women smiled at Nat, placed bread on the plate.

She ducked her head and let her hands tremble more. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the two men sitting at a table, watching her. She'd already noticed the one man's shoes. Leather and new.

German soup kitchens seldom asked for I.D. or proof of need.

She shuffled to the nearest empty table, sat down. Stared down at her food, fork shaking in her hand.

And waited.

_An addict. Pretty and alone._

Mr. New Shoes partner straightened the collar of his coat, got to his feet. He started walking her way.

It was almost _too_ easy.

Nat tore off a piece of her roll. Money, food--and the guy's coat. He was short and thin, it would fit her.

Then London--and the next target.

~~+~~

**spring, Iowa:**

Clint swore. He was tired and he was sore and all he needed was some sandpaper and the porch would be done. Except there was no damn sandpaper left.

Anywhere.

He swore some more, rummaging through the shelf over the workbench again. Exterior paint, spray paint, baling wire, twine--and a few old tractor manuals.

No sandpaper.

He squatted and dug through the crap under the bench. Tackle box, electric sander that didn't work, another old hammer and OK, how many fucking hammers was he going to find in this barn? More paint, more twine, and holy shit, was that--

He slid the tackle box over, teased out the chisel where it was wedged against the wall.

Oh fuck, yes. Another Marple paring chisel.

He'd been wanting Marples for years--and now he'd found eight.

_Eight._

But--no sandpaper.

Which meant a second trip to town. _Fuuuuck._

"Great." Clint thumped his forehead against the bench. "I finally get my hands on some Marples--and what I really need is some fucking sandpaper."

He stood, grunting as the motion pulled at his almost healed ribs--and stared at the package of sandpaper wedged between two cans of spray paint on the shelf _above_ the workbench.

The shelf he'd just checked.

Twice.

He slowly reached up, pulled the package down. It was unopened, a mix of different grits, and so old the design on the package was faded.

OK, what the fuck? How much weird crap could happen in _one_ week?

Like the hammers.

He'd complained once--once--about mislaying a hammer. Since then, he'd been finding hammers all over the damn place.

There was also the concrete.

There'd been enough concrete to pour all the footings--because somehow they had four extra bags. Four bags of concrete Clint knew he hadn't bought.

Also? The water sealant for the steps--

"Laura said I would find you here. You know, for a man who supposed to be on medical leave, you've been keeping busy."

He jumped at Fury's voice.

Clint turned, eyes narrowing. _Screw it._ There was something funny about the farm and he wanted answers. "I'd like to know what's going on--sir."

Fury looked at him--and then he gave a low chuckle. "I told Coulson you would figure it out. Come on, I have something I want to show you."

Instead of following, Clint just stood there, his feet rooted to the floor. Because that look Fury had just gave him? He'd never had anybody look at him like that--ever.

"Barton? The porch can wait." Fury looked over his shoulder, and yeah, the look on his face was still there.

Pride. _You've become one damn fine soldier._

"Yes, sir." Clint dropped the packet of sandpaper on the workbench, and followed Fury to the far end of the barn.

He half-expected Fury to hit a button, reveal some kind of secret room or other shit, but instead Fury kicked aside the hay, grabbed the iron ring hidden underneath, and pulled.

Clint watched, confused. He'd found the same trap door four days ago. There was nothing under the barn but a small, hand-dug room--and the remains of a very old still.

"Override security, protocol Tango-One-One-Three-Eight. Authority: Nicholas J. Fury." Fury said it--then waited.

A moment later, a vaguely dog-like robot bounded out of the hole. Well, if the dog was army green, and made out of scrap metal.

And had two gun turrets on its back.

"Sit." Fury ordered, and the robot did a strange little move where it picked up each front leg, before folding its two back legs and--

It took Clint a second to realize the robot was trying to bark. Something must've been messed up, because it sounded more like a squeak.

A very loud squeak.

"Recognize Captain Clinton Barton--codename Hawkeye." Fury put his hand in his coat pocket. "It's a WWII proto-type; it hasn't been updated with current ranks."

"Yes, sir." Clint was trying very hard not to take a step or two backwards. The thing had both guns trained on him, and its odd, black-lensed eyes were creeping him out.

Dog-robot gave another squeak, and wriggled its antenna-tail.

"Good boy." Fury actually patted the damn thing.

Dog-robot leaned into Fury, turning its head to nose his arm. From this angle, Clint could see that the robot was welded from jeep parts. Something had happened to the left side of its head--it was missing an ear, there was a mismatch of metal patches, and the left eye lens was smaller.

"Just once--I know you've been cooped up all week" Fury gave it another friendly pat, pulled a tennis ball out of his pocket, threw it.

Dog-robot squeaked, and bounded across the barn, opening enormous jaws that looked scarily capable of crushing things--and carefully, gently picked up the tennis ball. It did the odd thing with its front legs again--

Prancing.

The thing was trying to prance, like a real dog would. Except--Dog-robot kind of sucked at it.

It bounded back over, braking hard, both front paws sliding in the hay--and dropped the ball at Clint's feet.

He looked down.

Dog-robot tilted its battered head, wriggled its antenna-tail.

Um--

Dog-robot wriggled its entire back end.

Which, OK, was cute.

Sort of.

He gave in, tossed the ball. Dog-robot immediately gave another squeak, ran after it.

Fury waited until it picked up the ball. "Lucky?" Dog-robot squeaked and Fury started down the steps, "Follow Captain Barton."

Clint fell in behind Fury--and blinked. Instead of stopping at the dirt floor of the tiny cellar, the stairs now made a half turn and continued down a dark shaft that hadn't been there before.

"Lights." Fury spoke, and a row of florescent lights flickered on.

~~+~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Morgan Le Fay and the Norn Stones are Marvel canon, and Nuremburg and the Spear of Destiny are real life WWII conspiracy/rumors :)

~~+~~

**spring, Iowa:**

"Lucky?" Clint asked, mostly to keep his mind off the fact that he was following Fury down the stairs into who-the-hell-knew-where and there was a fully-armed robot clomping down the steps behind him.

"Long-ranged Unarmed Canine Infantry."

"Except it's armed." Clint pointed out.

"Lucki was assigned to this place as an interim solution. When Howard Stark upgraded the security systems after the war, he also upgraded Lucki. They reached another landing. "Lights."

More lights came on, revealing yet another long flight of stairs downward.

_Just far down did this shaft go?_

"So, I am guessing this isn't a farm--sir."

"No, this is Project Sampson." Fury answered. "After the Germans invaded Poland, General Marshall had several laboratories built. They were designed to be both covert and completely secure--in case we were next. This is the only one still active."

As they reached the next landing, Clint began to hear an odd bump-bump-bump. He could even feel it through his feet. There was also a solid curtain of what looked like red light halfway down the next flight of stairs.

"Override security, protocol Foxtrot-Five-Two-Nine. Authority: Nicholas J. Fury."

The override code worked--the red curtain vanished, and more lights flicked on. At the bottom of the steps, Clint could now see the source of the bumping. A weirdly-shaped and very battered Quinjet kept trying to rise, but only managed a couple of inches before crashing back to the concrete floor. Again and again and--

It wasn't a Quinjet.

Clint froze, because oh _fuck-shit-fuck_ , it was a spaceship. As in a _spaceship_ spaceship.

Fury continued down the stairs, turning sideways to slide past the nose of the ship.

He followed more slowly, hesitating on the bottom step, "I, uh, guess this is a prototype, too?"

"There's a reason the United States has stayed one step ahead of everyone else in the arms race." Nick gave him a mirthless smile. "Besides, this one isn't good for much, except running security programs."

_This one?_

Did that mean there was more than one? Clint decided not to think about that, because--

Uh, yeah.

He slipped past the its-a-real-fucking-spaceship, and--oh, wow, the place was big. Like, really, really big.

They were standing at one end of an enormous room, roughly three times the size of the barn. There had to be fifty rows of lab tables, still covered with notebooks and lab equipment and phones. Along one side, doors led to yet more other rooms. On the other side, countless metal crates were stacked under hundreds of gas masks hanging on pegs.

"Sit down. We need to talk."

Clint snagged a chair--and turned it slightly, so he could keep one eye on the spaceship.

Instead of sitting himself, Fury threw the ball for Lucki, then placed his hands behind his back. "What I am about to tell you is highly classified."

"Yeah, I figured that out when I saw the spaceship." Fury turned, with a slight frown, and Clint hastily added, "Yes, sir."

It didn't seem to help--Fury was still frowning at him. "Have you ever heard of the Nazi vaults at Nuremberg?"

At the mention of Nuremberg, Clint had a sinking feeling he knew where this conversation was heading.

_The Spear of Destiny._

As in, General Patton and the capture of the Spear of Destiny--which had once been locked in the Nuremberg vaults. Of all the crazy shit soldiers gossiped about, the rumors that the army had kept the real Spear of Destiny were the craziest. Then again, he was babysitting a clone, and there was a spaceship parked a few yards away, so--

"Please tell me the rumors we returned a replica of the Spear aren't true." This time Lucki brought the ball back to him. Clint threw it, but instead of running straight, Lucki took a slalom course, weaving in and out of the rows of the desks--squeaking happily.

Which, yeah, it was a robot, but still--it sounded happy.

"No, we returned the real Spear to Germany--after our scientists verified it was an early Medieval forgery. We also planted the rumor we had returned a replica, to cover up the fact we kept something far more valuable--the Norn stones."

"The what stones?"

"The Norn stones. There's an old legend that says Morgan Le Fay's powers came from mystical stones given to her by the Norns. At least, everybody assumed the stones were just a legend--until a Nazi used the stones to summon a couple of Frost Giants."

_Frost Giants?_

_Seriously?_

"Captain Rogers defeated the giants, but he didn't recover the stones. Later, General Patton learned the Nazis had snuck the Norn stones into Nuremberg for safe keeping."

"And these stones are here? In Iowa?" Clint was still stuck on the idea of Captain America fighting real fucking Frost Giants.

"All of the contents of the Nuremberg vaults were brought to this lab and examined, before being returned to their rightful owners. The original plan was to move the Norn stones to some place more secure, but there was an--incident. Since the stones refused to leave--"

"Wait--these stones--are you saying they're alive?"

Fury tossed the ball, turned back to look at him. "You've spent a week here. If you have a better explanation, I'd love to hear it."

Clint shut his mouth, watching as Lucki ran another complicated weave pattern through the tables.

"As I said, once it became clear the Norn stones were not willing to leave, security was increased and personnel were assigned to protect the stones--and to keep Project Sampson off the public's radar. Which brings me to the current situation. The other agent stationed with Lila retired last month. There's a--" He paused for a brief second, as if he'd changed his mind about what he was going to say,"--tradition of allowing the stones to choose the next replacement. This time, the Norn stones asked for the woman with claws'."

"Shit." The word slipped out before Clint could stop it.

"Exactly. You can imagine my surprise when two weeks later, I received a priority alert that Weapon X-23 was aboard one of our battleships." Fury turned, looking at him hard with his one good eye. "I don't like surprises--or coincidences."

Clint bristled. "Her name is Laura."

Fury frowned again. "She's not a person, Barton. She's a clone, created to be a weapon."

Clint eyed him, but he couldn't read Fury's expression.

Was this a test?

He suspected it was. After all, this was Fury; the same guy who'd bailed his sorry ass out of Riker. And Fury wouldn't have sent Laura here, to protect some old magic's stones, unless--

They were talking to the stones right now.

That's why Fury had dragged him down here. Fury wasn't really talking just to him--he was also talking to the Norn stones. Clint did a quick glance around the room, but all he saw was lots and lots of crap. Dust-covered crap.

Lucki dropped the ball at his feet.

Scratch that, dust-covered crap and a WWII robot that thought it was a dog. When had his life become so weird-ass weird? He tossed the ball, trying to think of what to say to both Fury _and_ the stones.

Unless--the stones could read minds? That made a strange sort of sense, considering the past week.

"She's still a person." Clint did his best to think about yesterday, remembering how Laura had half-closed her eyes in bliss, as she tasted her first bite of cookie dough. "You can't hold somebody responsible for what's been done to them, especially when they've never been given a chance to be anything else. If it was me, sir, I'd let Laura stay here--if she's OK with staying."

Inside his head he added, _If you're listening, please let Laura get to be like, normal, for a little while longer. OK?_

"Lila made almost the same argument." Fury turned towards him, "Since Laura appears to trust Lila and you have, apparently, recovered, I need you back in Washington. I also want to ask you to do something before we leave. This is a request, not an order, Barton--I will understand if you say no."

~~+~~

**early spring, London:**

"Thank you." Nat pocketed the change, tucked the book in her purse, and stepped from the bookstore onto the busy sidewalk. Around her, Londoners scurried through a light mist of rain.

_It had rained the last time she was here._

The thought came unbidden, just like the London accent. Except--she had never been in London, and the only English accents she was ever taught was a polished boarding school style English and a broader American Midwest.

Nat shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. She'd also somehow known exactly where her hotel was last night, although the street looked slightly different. She tried to chase the memory--

_Ivan._

She had been here with Ivan--

_"So soon?" His hand, catching her wrist._

_She let herself be pulled back into bed, into the still-warm hollow beside him. "The mission's done. We should--"_

_"It can wait." His breath was hot on her neck, as he stroked her side. "The room is paid through the end of the week."_

The memory left as quickly as it had come. Nat stopped and raised her face to the sky, heedless of the cold rain hitting her skin. She suddenly ached; a deep, bottomless ache as if something--or someone--was missing.

She dragged in a breath, then another.

_Ivan Petrovich. Died 4:12 am. No family._

The dead were dead--and she was an assassin.

All that mattered was finding the next target.

~~+~~

**spring, Iowa:**

Laura?" Lila stopped talking, smiled up at her, "Please put Lucki out, before you wash the dishes. Thank you, dear."

"Yes, ma'am." She picked up her plate and looked at the robot, who was toying with a scrap of wood from a porch post. "Lucki."

The robot rolled on its back, paws in the air.

"No, Lucki. Out." She opened the back door, and Lucki rolled back over, picked up the chunk of wood, and trotted outside.

Clint was right. The robot was _cool._ Everything about Lila's house was cool--the library and the barn and the attic--and now it turned out there was even a robot.

But it didn't matter.

They were making her leave. Nobody had told her yet, but Laura knew. Clint and Director Fury had been in the barn forever, and then Director Fury and Lila had been in the study for even longer. She set her plate next to the sink, drinking in the smells of the kitchen.

It smelled old, of wood and food and the lemon cleaner Lila used. She could smell Lila too--the scent clinging to the curtains and the bottle of dish soap. Laura breathed it in--the scent was smooth and grooved, almost like carved wood.

She tested the water like Lila had taught her, then let the sink fill. It was well water, smelling of earth and cold, mingling with the funny scent of the dish soap. "Laura?"

Director Fury.

She could smell him behind her; smooth, hard marble. The scent was almost as fascinating as Clint's smell. But he was the man in charge, and he was doing what every man in charge did--pretending to be nice.

Laura wasn't fooled.

"We need to talk." He handed her a stack of plates.

"Yes, sir." She kept her eyes down, letting the plates slip into the water. This close, Fury's scent was distracting--she felt crowded by smooth pillars of marble.

Call me Nick." He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms. "I already spoke to Lila and Barton, but before I make my decision, I want to hear what you want."

Laura froze. Nobody ever asked her that. Nobody cared what she wanted.

It had to be a trick. And if she said she wanted to stay, that she didn't want any more beatings or procedures or wipes, he would lock her back up, just to teach her a lesson.

"Laura?"

Her heart was hammering in her chest. She wanted to stay, but he was trying to trick her--

Clint.

Fury liked Clint, and Clint was her friend and--she kept her head down, washed a cup. "I--I want to do whatever Clint thinks is best."

"Clint thinks you should stay here. So does Lila--and, despite my reservations, I agree with them."

Relief flooded through her, knocking the air from her lungs.

"No one should be experimented on." Fury kept talking, "but there are other people who might see the situation differently. Laura, if I let you stay here, you must promise me that you will listen to Lila, and do exactly what she asks you to do."

Laura nodded, confused. _Why was he the man in charge if he didn't think people should be experimented on?_

"--and we'll need to come up with a cover for you. Do you know what a G.E.D. is?"

She shook her head, set the cup in the drain board, and picked up a glass.

You know what school is?" He paused until she nodded. "Graduation is what happens when you complete school. The G.E.D. is the equivalent. Lila has agreed to teach you what you will need to know."

Laura nodded again, more confused--but she would happily learn whatever ceremony he was talking about, if it meant staying.

"I need to talk to you about one more thing--I want you to marry Barton."

She nearly dropped the glass.

"It's only for a couple of years; we need to establish a cover for you. Also, this is America, and we're a little old-fashioned when it comes to civil unions. If anything were to happen, the courts would recognize Barton's right as your husband to look out for your best interests. Do you understand?"

She didn't--what did tennis courts have to do with marriage? She nodded anyway. "Yes, sir."

"You can call me Nick."

"Nick." She was very careful to smile for him when she said it--because it was important to smile for the man in charge.

She'd just never figured out why.

~~+~~

**early spring, London:**

Nat raised the binoculars, watching as three children chased each other across the lawn, while a laughing toddler tumbled after them. She swung the binoculars towards the patio where their father stood, half-hidden in shadows. He looked gaunt and exhausted, worn down by grief.

Nat lowered the binoculars, slipped the strap around her neck. She ran down the roof, balanced, then jumped. Hit the next roof, slid down to the eaves, jumped again. She landed in the alley below. A few minutes later, she emerged onto the main street and turned north. It was a long walk to her hotel, but she wanted time to think.

It made no sense.

Darya--her target--was dead, had been dead for a couple months. Nat had read and reread the newspaper articles on the car accident. She'd even gotten her hands on a copy of the police report.

Poor visibility.  
Under-inflated tires.  
Inexperienced driver.  
Accidental death.

Simple, straight forward, except--Darya wasn't inexperienced. She'd been the Red Room's best and brightest. Nat shoved her hands deeper into her pockets as the wind picked up, whirling trash across the almost empty sidewalk.

Had Darya chosen death?

She frowned, because that didn't make sense, either. Unless--

Had Darya begun to remember, too? Memories that seemed impossible, memories that seemed to turn everything she'd been told into--

_Everybody lies. Everybody. Ivan said it around the cigarette in his teeth, as he slowed the truck to a crawl over the makeshift bridge and stuck an arm out the window, motioning the rest of the convoy to do the same. "The key is deciding which lies you can live with._

The memory was so clear that for a moment, Nat could almost smell the smoke from the cigarette. She blinked, and found herself standing at the entrance to one of the tube stations. She hesitated, then went down the stairs. It didn't matter. Darya was dead, and-- There were still six targets left.

~~+~~

**summer, Krasnovia:**

From his vantage point on the roof, Clint could see the suspect leaving the restaurant. "Eagle Two? The package is on the move. I repeat, the package is on the move." He tried to say it as dramatically as he could, knowing Sitwell--who was back in the hotel room--would probably start swearing.

In the past two months, he'd learned three things:

1\. Mel--Agent Melinda May--was even scarier than he'd first thought.

2\. SHIELD had their fingers into everything--as in, _everything_.

3\. Jaspar Sitwell was very good at what he did--and a complete dick. _Especially_ when he started in on the whole "This is not the movies so you better not fuck this up crap."

"This is Eagle One Alpha Bravo Bravo--I have eyes on the package." Mel said it so dryly, Clint was hard pressed not to start laughing. "Repeat, I have eyes on the package."

It really did sound like the crazy shit people said in movies and Jaspar's mike might be on mute, but oh yeah, he had to be swearing at them right now. Served the guy right for being such an asshole this morning--

The suspect was in the alley.

Clint let loose the arrow, and the target crumpled. A split second later, a nondescript gray sedan rolled up, and Mel got out. She heaved the guy into the backseat in one scarily efficient move, and sped off again.

"Eagle One Alpha Bravo Bravo Charley has landed, sir." Clint folded his bow as said it--and then grinned at Jasper's 'Fuck you, Barton.'

He pulled a suit jacket from his briefcase, shook it out. Shrugged into the jacket, placed the bow in the briefcase, and closed it. A moment later, Clint brushed gravel off his shoes and slipped through the door he'd propped open two hours ago.

It took twenty minutes to walk back at their hotel. Clint was pretty sure he hadn't been followed, but it never hurt to be careful--or to add another drink to Uncle Sam's tab.

He strolled across the lobby to the bar, and ordered. Then he sat down in the lounge area, blending in with the other American businessmen who were circling the bones of what was left of Krasnovia's economy. Well, mostly American. A couple of locals in Western-style suits were in a corner booth, haggling. He half-listened as he sipped his drink. He remembered Jaspar's surprise that Clint could speak both the local language, and the weird dialect that wasn't quite standard English. Jaspar wasn't just an asshole; he was a uptight asshole who made stupid assumptions.

Clint was pretty good at picking up languages--one of the advantages of growing up a carnie. Every outfit was like a mini U.N., except it was usually Romanians throwing knives at Flipino acrobats, instead of Quaracans throwing Molotov cocktails at American soldiers.

His life really hadn't changed that much. Well, except he was _married._

As in married _married_.

He took another sip and grinned, because being married? Was fucking _awesome_

When Fury suggested it, Clint thought it was completely nuts--and kind of brilliant. If anybody was looking for Laura, they'd be looking for a crazy woman with claws--not some military wife, living on a farm in Middle of Nowhere, Iowa.

And now? He got care packages from his 'aunt'. Lila's cookies were so good and Laura always picked out weird stuff, like ugly socks, and oh man, it was so nice to finally, _finally_ get care packages from 'home'.

But the best thing about being married? Amazon.

For the first time in his life, he had money _and_ people to spend it on, and all he had to do was click a few buttons. Lila loved biographies and documentaries on old stuff. Laura loved Disney movies and chocolate and books about made up crap, like dragons--

No, scratch that--the best thing? Was the phone calls. Talking to Lila and Laura these past three months was like...

Well, it was what Clint had always suspected Christmas must be like.

Not that any of them talked about anything important. Lila talked about the chickens and church gossip, and Laura talked about the chickens and whatever book she was reading and--well, OK, he mostly bitched, about the food and the weather and Sitwell.

Clint's smile widened into a grin, thinking about the last phone call.

Laura asked for a book. Clint knew most people--normal people who had normal childhoods with three squares a day and Christmases and birthdays, wouldn't understand--but he did. It was a pretty big fucking deal for Laura to screw up the courage to ask for _anything_.

He'd immediately sent her the whole series--and another series by another author, and the latest Disney movie. Which was probably going overboard, 'cuz he now had to send Laura something next week for her birthday, and wow, he was not going to think about the fact he was married to someone who was turning ten, because that was sort of creepy--

_Oh shit._

Clint recognized the man walking through the hotel's doors. Agent Coulson. Who was supposed to be halfway across the world, on some secret mission, on some tiny island Clint had never heard of.

_Oh, holy shit._

He really, really didn't like the look on Coulson's face.

~~+~~

**spring, Atlantic:**

_Well if the storm sinks us, at least we know those damn Germans will have to build the wall now. Ivan laughed, bracing his feet as the ship shivered and rolled. He took another swig, passed the bottle to the next officer._

_They'll boot the Old Man out for sure. He's done for. The officer grinned back, took a quick sip, and passed the bottle to her--_

Nat woke abruptly, as the ship's violent rolling nearly dumped her from the bunk. She tightened her already firm grip on the bar, and thrust a foot out to wedge herself.

_Why did this always happen? Every time she booked passage on a ship, there was a storm--_

Except, she'd never booked passage on a ship before. Nat sucked in a breathe of air, let it out slowly.

Focus.

Focus on what's important.

Tomorrow, she'd be in Spain--and looking for the next target.

Wait.

The officer hadn't said 'old man'. He'd said 'Der Alte', which was the nickname for--Aldenauer? She frowned, groping for information she'd memorized for another assignment. Aldenauer had been Chancellor of West Germany when the Berlin Wall was built in--62 or 63?

_That's why Ivan and I were sent to London, so we could--_

She chased the thought, but it swirled away, leaving her with nothing. The ship suddenly yawed hard, and Nat swore, and wedged herself even tighter into the tiny space.

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

"I will, Lila. I promise. Clint hung up the phone--and then just sat there in the co-pilot's chair, trying to breath past the panic.

_What the fuck?_

Laura _loved_ the farm.

And Lila said nothing weird or different or strange happened yesterday. She and Laura ran into town for groceries, weeded the garden, made dinner. Nothing happened, and yet, in the middle of the night, Laura fled.

Laura was _gone_ and it made no fucking sense--

Coulson leveled the Quinjet off just above the treeline. "Can you think of any place she might go?"

"I already told you. No." He snapped back, and then stopped, because yelling at Coulson wasn't going to help. "Sorry, I just--why the hell did she run?"

"What's important now is we find her." Coulson checked his instruments once more, glanced back over. "What about the cabin? Do you think she would head there?"

Fuck--of course.

He felt like kicking himself. "Yeah, she knows about the cabin--and she knows I won't be stateside for another month. It'd be the perfect place to hide."

"Then I guess we'd better get to Wy--"

There was a sudden beeping. Coulson punched something and a section of the dash turned into a screen.

Fury glared, "Coulson, what the hell are you doing in Krasnovia?"

"Lila's niece is missing, sir--and since she is also the wife of a SHIELD agent, her disappearance falls under the parameters of my current assignment."

"Like hell it does." It didn't seem possible, but Fury managed to glare even more. "We do not waste government resources on a missing nineteen-year-old--I don't care whose niece she is. May I remind you, Coulson, you work for me and _not_ for Lila."

"With all due respect, sir--Lila's bad side is not something I think either of us want to be on." Coulson answered. "Also, as the best man at the wedding, I do have an obligation to offer my assistance. We're just asking for seventy-two hours, sir."

"You have thirty-six hours," Fury barked back, "and I can assure you, this incident? Is going on both of your records. Cut the feed."

The screen turned gray.

"You were the best man at my wedding?" Clint jumped at the chance of a distraction--any distraction.

"Jaime in Forensic Accounting is a genius with Photoshop. He's working on a picture which I am going to give Laura for her birthday." Coulson punched up the auto-pilot, typed in a course. "It's a pretty good likeness of all of us--you got married under the big oak by the creek. I've always liked that spot."

"Yeah?" Clint stared at the tiny auto-pilot screen, silently willing the blip that was the Quinjet to fly faster. "What kind of cake did we have?"

~~+~~

**summer, Italy:**

Nat picked up her pace, eying the dark clouds gathering in the sky. Her uniform was cheap and thin, her sweater threadbare--she'd be soaked through if it started raining. She skirted a ditch, shoes sliding in the mud--

_The mud sucked at her boots and her legs ached from the effort of walking. In the doorways of war-scarred buildings, villagers huddled, silently watching. Their faces were etched with hunger and fear._

_She glanced over at Ivan, marching beside her. His face was pale, and she wondered again if his injury from Seravapol was more serious than he was letting on._

_He caught her looking, gave her a fierce grin, full of teeth. "Quit worrying. I'm going to live forever._

Nat sucked in her breath at the sudden pain from those words, reminding herself it was just a--

What? A memory of a soldier who'd died in 1943?

She reached the house a moment later and circled around to the back, where a flight of wooden stairs led to a second floor balcony. The upstairs was just two rooms and a shared bath, but the other renter was quiet, and the place was surprisingly clean.

Nat slipped into her room, kicked off muddy shoes, and put the chain on. The rain began beating on the roof as she hung up the sweater and uniform. She settled on the bed, in an over-sized T-shirt, to eat the sandwich she'd stolen from the kitchen trash. Her money belt was already heavy with her wages as a maid, but Nat saw no reason to waste money on something as plentiful as food--the tourists at the hotel were rich and wasteful.

It was harder than she'd expected it to be.

Not the job.

Not even the waiting. Her next target would be back in town next month, and Nat had waited longer, much longer on other jobs. No, it was being around the mostly rich, mostly American tourists. She may have broken free of the Red Room, and its lies--but it still took all of her willpower to fight her training, to _not_ take advantage of such people.

Rain ran down the glass of the one tiny window in the room. She picked the olives out as she ate, her mind turning back to the mission-- _her_ mission.

Just one more month and then--only five would be left.

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

Clint hurriedly jammed the comm in his right ear, glanced back at the screen. The satellite feed still showed the black SUV sitting at a gas pump. The good news was they'd found Laura. The bad news was she'd figured out how to steal a car.

Scratch that.

The bad news Laura had stolen the wrong guy's vehicle--as in, the guy in charge of the entire state's fucking highway patrol.

Coulson's gaze flicked from the screen back to him. "You sure about this?"

"Yes. She trusts me. Just get me as close as you can." It was a lie--he was _hoping_ Laura still trusted him--since he had no fucking clue why she was running in the first place. He scrambled towards the belly of the Quinjet, fighting to keep his footing as the ship dropped lower and lower--the bay doors opened.

Clint took a deep breath, and jumped.

He hit the dirt, tucked and rolled. Then he was up in his feet, running, hoping like hell his half-assed plan would work.

 _If_ Laura still trusted him.

He cut left, circled around the convenience store, and then poured on the speed because Laura was already hanging up the gas nozzle--and holy shit, how in world had she figured out how to steal an SUV _and_ credit cards?

"Clint?" Laura whirled--and then she was running, throwing her arms around him, half-crushing him. "Clint!"

"Yeah, it's me." Relief flooded through him as he wrapped his arms around her--and shit, she was shaking. Like, _really_ shaking.

"You found me."

"Well, you did steal the wrong guy's car." He hugged her tighter. "We really need to talk about something called highway patrol--and why it's bad thing to have a BOLO out for you in three states."

"Five states."Coulson's voice in his ear. "I assume I can advise the troopers that road blocks are no longer necessary?"

She jumped, "Is that Phil?"

He wondered, again, just how good her hearing was. "Yes, and he--"

Laura started crying. She made no sound, just buried her face in his shirt, shaking so hard it made his teeth rattle. An older woman walked by, giving them an odd look before getting into her car. She shot them another look, then drove off, leaving Clint in an empty parking lot with a stolen SUV.

And Laura.

Who was _crying._

He didn't know what to do, so he just held her until she stopped--which was a good thing because she was hugging him so hard his ribs were starting to hurt. "Laura? Look, why don't we drive up to the cabin--"

"May I remind you, Coulson cut in, "that is a stolen vehicle."

"--and we can just talk, OK?" Clint finished. The cabin was an hour and half away. Surely that was enough time to convince Laura she was safe. Even if he didn't know what the hell was going on.

"You're taking me to the cabin?" Laura pulled away, her eyes wary.

"You're not in trouble." He put his arm around her shoulders, "I mean, sure, Director Fury isn't happy right now, but nobody's sending you back to a lab just because you ran away."

She nodded, let him steer her towards the passenger side--

_Oh._

_Oh shit._

Clint waited until Laura was buckled in, closed the car door. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, staring at Lucki. The robot was sprawled across the back seat, happily chewing the seat cushions to shreds.

"Uh, Coulson? Laura didn't destroy Lucki. She took him--um, it--with her."

"That's impossible." Coulson didn't sound sure, though. "Lucki is programmed to remain within the confines of Project Sampson."

"Well, sir, 'impossible' is currently eating the seat cushions." He walked around to the driver's side. "I'm guessing that's what's jamming the lo-jack, too. You still think the cabin isn't a good idea? Because I know a back road that shouldn't have too much traffic."

Coulson sighed. "Take Laura to the cabin. I--need to make some calls."

Clint nodded and slid into the driver seat--wait, keys? How had she gotten the trooper's keys?

He looked over--and it felt like somebody gut-punched him. Laura was huddled in the passenger seat, her face red from crying, but what really got him was the stare. Clint knew that hollowed-eye stare; it was the one soldiers got--usually right before they snapped and did crazy shit.

He pulled the SUV onto the road, then stretched out his arm. "Come here."

Laura undid the seat belt, slid across the bench seat. She leaned into him, saying something he couldn't quite hear. He opened his mouth to ask her to repeat it, but then she said it again, louder. "I killed her. I remember, Clint. There was all this blood, and--and she was dead."

Oh, fuck. Something twisted in his stomach and Clint suddenly realized being mind-wiped wasn't the worst thing that could ever happen to Laura.

It was finally remembering the things she'd done while under those bastards' control.

~~+~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still wrestling with the last bits of chapter four - hopefully I will have it up in the next week or so. Also, this chapter got a serious overhaul, so not really betaed. sorry?

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

By the time Clint pulled the covers up, Laura was already out like a light. He leaned in, kissed her cheek--and then realized what he was doing. Which, OK, she _was_ his wife.

Kind of.

Except tonight proved he totally sucked as a husband or friend or--whatever he was.

Like, really, really sucked at it.

He sighed and went downstairs--where Lucki was turning a log into a pile of splinters. He sat up when he saw Clint, wagging his antenna tail.

_Fuck._

He needed a drink.

He started towards the fridge--no, he needed something stronger than beer. He dug out the bottle of tequila he'd won two years ago, poured three fingers into a coffee cup. He took a slug, felt a bump against his leg.

He looked down.

Lucki nudged him again.

"Just a shot.” He mumbled, as he poured a _lot_ more alcohol into the mug, and headed for the couch. He sank down into the cushions and Lucki immediately dropped his massive head on Clint's knee.

And squeaked worriedly.

"It's OK, it's just--I screwed up. Again. If you haven't noticed, I am the _last_ person you want to have for a friend." He took another swallow, letting the tequila burn its way to his stomach.

The whole drive had been a fucking disaster. He'd tried to calm Laura down, but only wound up saying one stupid thing after another until Laura was so upset, she was crying too hard to make any sense. Not that _anything_ she'd said made sense. 

She'd killed some doctor--but beyond that, he didn't have a fucking clue.

 _Fuck!_ He was such a fucking idiot--

Lucki lifted his head, and gave a warning squeak.

 _Shit!_ The car!

He heaved himself to his feet, went over to the front windows. There were lights below; a procession of several cars, a tow truck--and a Quinjet.

Huh.

Coulson must've called half the fucking state.

He headed for the front door, then stopped because he still had the earpiece in. "Sir? The SUV's unlocked and the keys are under the floor mat." He took another swallow, glanced at the window again.

Down at his drink. _Screw it._

Coulson had it under control--and he had already fucked things up enough for one night.

Clint took the earpiece out, tossed it on the end table. He sat back down on the couch, and Lucki dropped his chin on his knee again. A few minutes later, he heard the front door open.

"You really should lock your door, even out here." There was the snick of a deadbolt. "Mind if I make coffee?"

Clint waved one hand and continued drinking, as Coulson banged around the kitchen and the smell of coffee brewing filled the cabin. 

A few minutes later, Coulson sat down on the other end of the couch, a coffee mug in his hand. "Clint--no, Lucki," He pointed at the floor when Lucki stood up. "Lie down."

Coulson waited for the robot to obey, "Clint, you didn't screw up tonight; I did. I withheld information; information I realize now I should've shared with you."

Clint nursed his drink, wondering where the hell this was going.

"I believe I know the name of the doctor Laura killed--Dr. Sarah Kinney. She was a research assistant on the Weapon X project. Thanks to data we seized during the raid of the first lab, we also know she was the scientist that created Laura and the other clones.“

Coulson paused, looking at the fireplace for a long moment. “Dr. Kinney's notes suddenly ceased three months before the raid. Laura's account tonight confirms our suspicions the doctor was killed."

Which meant--

Laura had killed the person who created her.

When she was _seven_.

“You could've told me that during the damn car ride." Clint could hear the bitter edge in his voice.

"I could have, but I'm also aware of just how good Laura's hearing is. I didn't want to upset her even more." Coulson took a sip of coffee, "There is something else you should know. Dr. Kinney discovered the original subject had an unstable mutation on the X chromosome. To compensate--"

"She created female clones instead of male clones." He'd been reading up on clones--since he was kind of sort of married to one. "Because the second X chromosome would cancel out any problems on the first X chromosome. Let me guess--this doctor used her own DNA?" 

"Yes. l--” Coulson's voice softened. "I'm afraid Laura killed her mother."

"It wasn't her fault." He saw Coulson's expression. "Weren't you listening? She kept talking about how she couldn't stop--"

Wait-- _Laura's extra sensitive hearing_.

Clint was instantly sober, because it suddenly made sense, in a horrible, awful, terrible way. "They forced her to kill. It must've been a sound, something only the clones could hear. You said it yourself; Laura's hearing is way better than ours."

"You think they conditioned her to respond to a stimulus." Coulson nodded slowly, "We hadn't considered that."

He waited for Coulson to keep talking, but the guy took another sip of his coffee instead. Fine. If SHIELD wanted him to be Laura's husband, then he wanted to know the one thing he _knew_ they weren't telling him.

Clint finished his drink, let the burn of the alcohol hit his stomach. Then he asked, even though he was already regretting it. "You want to tell me what was really in those two cryovac chambers? And don't you dare tell me it was viruses."

Coulson froze. Then he slowly set down his coffee cup. "You're right; it wasn't viruses.”

Clint waited, and there was another long moment before Coulson spoke.

“Captain Rogers and the Weapon X program weren't the only super soldier programs. Russia developed a program to create better KGB operatives as well.” Coulson stared at the fireplace again, as if he didn’t want to meet Clint’s eyes. "There have also been persistent rumors the Nazis found a test subject, the Reich's ideal soldier. What was in those cryovacs was proof this German soldier exists."

Clint wished he hadn't finished his drink. "They were cloning Nazi super soldiers."

"They were trying to create super soldiers, but not through cloning." Coulson answered, his voice very soft. “The Cryovacs contained embryos; embryos created by fertilizing Laura's eggs with the German soldier's sperm."

It took a second for Clint to realize what that meant.

_Oh._

_Oh, fuck._

"Please, tell me you didn't…" But he already knew the answer--it was written on Coulson's face.

Coulson raised his eyes, meeting Clint’s gaze."We did. We implanted the embryos into surrogates, and one of the pregnancies was--is successful. I was waiting until next month, when the pregnancy will be safely in the third trimester, to tell Laura."

He raised a hand, "I know what you're thinking, but at the time we'd just found proof this German super soldier was not only alive, but is most likely the operative known as the Winter Soldier, who is responsible for at least twenty assassinations. You and May's reports had also just confirmed our worst fears of what Laura is capable of. We had to make a decision--"

"And what? You were just going to call her up next month and tell her?" Clint was on his feet and yelling, but he didn't care because this was so, so fucking wrong. "Oh, hey, Laura, there's another woman out there carrying your baby, because we decided to play God--"

"I have a baby?"

Clint whirled, and saw Laura standing in the middle of the stairs.

_Awww, fuck._

~~+~~

**summer, Italy:**

Nat’s shoulder burned from the knife wound. She carefully, methodically cleaned blood from the stones of the barn. Some of it was hers, most of it was Elena's.

She pushed through the pain, and when she was finished, forced herself to roll the rags into a neat bundle.It took even more effort to walk out to Elena's car, set the bundle in the trunk. 

Nat slid into the driver's seat, sagged against the seat. Did a quick self-assessment.

Blood loss. Shock. Pain.

She could push herself--another three hours? Maybe four. 

She still had to dispose of the body, get out of Italy. Nat gritted her teeth and put the keys in the ignition, turned the engine over. The movement sent fresh fire down her arm. She swore softly.

South.

Instead of leaving Italy, she could always go south. Mark would take her in, shelter her. She hadn't wanted to involve anyone but--

She swore again, and eased the car forward, towards the road.

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

_\--popped ribs cracking blood so much blood those eyes open staring--_

Laura sat up, shaking. She grabbed a pillow and breathed in Clint's scent, soft and fuzzy and warm, mingled with the scratchier roughness of laundry soap.

Everybody was right. She was bad, a killer, a _murderer_. She'd murdered people, good people. 

The doctor.

And all those soldiers.

She closed her eyes, but the doctor's lifeless eyes were there, staring back at her--

Laura opened her eyes--

Voices.

She breathed in Clint's lingering scent, focusing on the words, trying to ignore the other sounds. The wind outside, the rustling of trees. The low hum of the fridge downstairs. 

The constant buzzing of whatever was inside Lucki.

Phil and Clint.

They were talking about her.

Clint was angry.

She slid out of bed, crept to the stairs. She held her breath as she listened--and then relaxed. Clint was angry, but not with her. 

It was something SHIELD did.

“We had to make a decision--"

"And what? You were just going to call her up next month and tell her?” Clint. Loud, angry. “Oh, hey, Laura, there's another woman out there carrying your baby, because we decided to play God--"

"I have a baby?" The words slipped out.

She had a baby.

Like other women. _Normal_ women.

Clint reached out, "Laura--"

She ignored him and asked again. "I have a baby?"

"Yes, a son." Phil's expression changed. He seemed--guilty? "Clint is right; we should’ve told you."

"Can--can I see him?" She braced herself, knowing already what the answer would be.

He'll be born at the end of the year." Phil answered, "And actually, we--we were hoping you would consider raising him."

It wasn't the answer she'd been expecting. All the air seemed to leave the room, and Laura sat down hard on the steps. "But--I kill people."

Clint sat down beside her. "Hey, listen to me." He waited until she looked at him, "Yes, you used to kill people. But that's not who you are, unless you want it to be--because we're going to figure this out."

She was confused. "Figure what out?"

"Earlier, you kept saying something hurt." He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Phil. "What hurt? Was it a sound?"

"No, the smell--" Suddenly everything _hurt_. It hurt so much, and she was so, so angry--

"Whoa." Clint's hand was over her nose and mouth, and his scent flooded in, soft and fuzzy and warm. "Easy there, Scissorhands. I spent hours sanding these stairs." It was only then she realized her claws were out. She quickly sheathed them.

"Better?" He removed his hand when she nodded. Clint gently wiped away the flecks of blood still on her knuckles, the skin newly healed from sheathing her claws. "Do you believe me now? It's not her fault. She's been conditioned."

She glanced at him, then at Phil--who was frowning. "What's conditioning?"

Phil sat down on the step below her, pointed at Lucki. "Imagine if you rang a bell every time you fed a dog. Eventually, the dog would become hungry any time it heard the bell."

"Right--and now we know you have a trigger, we can also figure out how to undo it."

"That may be easier than you think. Laura is a guardian for the Norn stones--and the stones can influence memories." Phil gave her a reassuring smile, "We could just ask the stones if they would be willing to remove the conditioning."

Laura stared at him, because it couldn't be that easy.

“See?” Clint slipped an arm around her. "We can go back to the farm, sort this out--heck, we even have a Quinjet parked right outside."

"We can head to the farm tomorrow. Right now, I think we could all use some sleep." Phil stood up, picked up a coffee cup and Lucki tilted its head, then carefully, gently grabbed the other mug. "Thank you, Lucki."

The robot wagged its tail--and there was a loud crack as the mug shattered.

Clint sighed and stood up. "I got it."

~~+~~

**summer, Italy:**

"Eat." Mark put a plate in front of her, sat down in the other chair. He gave her a look, "What's really going on?"

"I left." The narcotics were kicking in. Nat relaxed and took a bite of the grilled chicken, though she wasn't really hungry. Mark was American and talkative. She could out-wait him.

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes of silence, Mark gave a small sigh. "Except your employer's isn't exactly known for encouraging the employees to strike out on their own." He settled back in his chair. Even though Mark had been retired for many years, he was still as lithe and wiry as a cat. He waited.

The silence between them grew.

"You want to know if the rumors are true." Nat finally answered the unasked question. She chewed another bite methodically, swallowed. "Seven so far--although England wasn't mine."

Mark gave her another long look.

Nat took another couple of bites, and then conceded. "My last--department'--was downsized, we were all transferred to other departments. Those in charge have moved on. It will be a while before my employer realizes those employees who worked for my former department have," she met his gaze, "been permanently retired."

He frowned slightly, his eyes concerned. "And what about you? What will you do after this--" He made a slight motion with hand, "mission of yours?"

"I remember what someone once told me." It was her turn to give him a look, as she reached for her water glass with her good arm, "Never ask a question, if you don't want to hear the answer."

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

For the second time that night, Clint pulled the covers up. He hesitated, then leaned over and kissed Laura's forehead. "Night, Laura."

"Night"--or at least that's what he assumed she mumbled, as she burrowed deeper into the pillows.

He went to the bathroom to take care of business, washed his hands, and then scrubbed a hand over his face. What a totally, absolutely fucked up day.

He also really needed a shower--and maybe another drink.

He yawned, then yawned again.

But first--shower.

He got in, turning the water to scalding hot. Yawned again as he slumped against the tile. He wasn't even sure who to be mad at.

The bastards who'd forced Laura to kill? 

Or the bastards who'd decided to play God just so they could have their very own super Nazi baby?

He stifled another yawn, reached for the soap. What was really fucked up was the look in Laura's eyes. She wanted the baby. She wanted it so damn badly and that was totally fucked up, because the government was never going to hand a baby over to-- 

_Fury._

That son of a bitch had set him up.

Yeah, sure, SHIELD needed a cover for Laura--but mostly they wanted a cover for any babies that might be born. Which explained why he was supposed to keep things vague, not talk much about his marriage or the farm. SHIELD didn't want him saying anything that might blow the perfect cover.

And it was so fucking perfect.

A soldier and his wife, the cozy little farm, their little bundle of joy. Nobody would ever suspect the baby was a test tube Nazi, the farm was actually a secret WWII lab, and oh yeah, his wife was a clone with ginsu knifes in her hands.

His life wasn't just weird, it was fuckin' insane, and--

Baby.

_Oh, holy shit._

He was going to be a father.

A dad.

Like, a _dad._ With a _kid_.

Clint let his head thunk against the shower wall. 

_Fuuuuuck._

He couldn't be a dad. He sucked at, well, pretty much everything. But--

This was Laura and she wanted the baby and that meant he was going to have to figure out how to be a dad, or an uncle... or something.

_Shit._

He twisted off the water, turned, and slid down the wall. 

_Shitshitshit._

He buried his face in his hands, because there was no way somebody who fucked shit up as badly as he did was ever, ever going to be a good dad. 

A _dad_. 

Clint lifted his head, let the back of his skull smack against the tiles. A yawn snuck in, then another. He finally heaved himself to his feet, did a half-ass job of drying himself, yanked on the sweats hanging on the back of the door. He was too tired to brush, so he just took a swig of mouthwash, rinsed and spit. He turned off the light, opened the bathroom door.

He looked over at Laura, sprawled in sleep across the bed.

There were two perfectly good guest beds downstairs, plus another bunk in the basement, but--his bed was _right_ there.

And it was an awesomely big, _soft_ bed.

He tip-toed around Lucki, who was stretched out on the rug, and then quietly slipped in on the other side. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow--

~~+~~

**summer, Italy:**

The throbbing in her arm pulled her from sleep. Nat rose and pulled on a robe, hissing at the pain. The bottle of pills sitting on the dresser was tempting, but she crossed to the French doors instead, stepped out onto the balcony.

It was a warm night, and the ocean salt made the air feel sticky. Nat leaned against the balcony, cradling her arm--and chasing her dream.

She was back in the Red Room, in the dormitory.

Except--it wasn't. She remembered the Red Room. The dorm had been simple Russian efficiency; gray walls, scuffed linoleum floors, painted-over windows. Things as much a part of her training as the kick of a gun in her hand. And yet--

In the dream, the walls were a bright and cheerful yellow, the floors and windows clean and new. Even the smells had been different; fresh paint and plaster instead of disinfectant and boiled vegetables.

The moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, and Nat watched as the light turned the tiled roof tops into a million shifting patterns. She remembered that, too; watching the moon through those tiny windows. But she also remembered those same panes obscured by a thick coat of paint--

She shook her head and went back inside to grab some pills.

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

_Screaming._

_The screams grew louder and louder, and Clint scuttled backwards, deeper into the closet. He pressed his hands against ears, trying to block out the--_

"Clint."

Somebody grabbed him.

_No! Nonono!_

He fought and kicked and--

"Clint, it's OK."

_Laura._

"It' OK." Her voice was soft and reassuring in his right ear. "It's all right, you're safe. It's just a bad dream."

He blinked and opened his eyes, dragging in a lungful of air.

"It's all right, you're safe. We're both safe." Laura wrapped her arms around him and he sucked in another breath, and then curled into her embrace, because she was warm and soft and _Laura_.

She continued murmuring and Clint yawned and curled into her a little more. It was funny how he always forgot, forgot how strong Laura was.

Her arms were like a wall. A warm, safe wall...

He yawned again, and slid back into sleep.

~~+~~

**summer, Italy:**

_Nat took her time finishing the last few sips of thin broth--it'd been too long since their last meal. "Ivan? Why did the White Army kill those villagers?"_

_"We are building a new country; they want only to rebuild the past. Always remember this, a soldier fights for those who cannot fight for themselves, while a coward kills those who cannot harm him anyway." He put out his hand, and she handed him the empty cup.” Lie down now, go to sleep.”_

_Nat was still hungry, but she obediently stretched out on the worn floorboards of the summer house. Bright sun poked through the windows as Ivan draped his coat over her and she shut her eyes against the light, breathing in Ivan's familiar scent, mixed with the scents of the other soldiers, and the mustier smells of wood and damp._

_Somewhere, a soldier was writing a letter. She could hear the scratch of the pen on--_

"Nat?" Mark was looking at her, an odd expression on his face. "Did you hear what I said?"

"I'm sorry, I must've dosed off." She laid down the magazine, with its glossy cover photo of a bowl of soup. "I--I need some pills."

She could feel Mark's eyes on her as she slipped out of the room. Nat stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, then leaned against it.

It was getting worse.

Anything, everything seemed to remind her of something; a constant flood of memories that still made no sense. She remembered the Revolution and fighting the White Army, but she also remembered the Second World War and fighting the Nazis, and even London in the early sixties--

She ran her fingers though her hair, and straightened.

It didn't matter.

Whatever had been done to her, or to the others--it didn't matter. She was going to put an end to the Red Room once and for all.

It was time to leave Italy--and start hunting her next target.

~~+~~

**summer, Wyoming:**

Coffee.

Freshly brewed.

Clint drifted slowly out of sleep, becoming aware of other things. Laura, asleep on his chest. Something sharp, poking him in the back.

He opened one eye, twisted.

Yup, the pokey thing was Lucki. He could see part of a gun turret--

Laura mumbled something.

"Sorry, what?" 

Laura shifted over towards his right side. "I said, stop moving." She stopped, sniffed--and sat up. "Coulson's making pancakes."

"He can't be." Clint sat up too, making a face because both his mouth and his bladder were reminding him of why he usually stuck to beer. "There's no food. I threw it all away before I left."

"The Quinjets do have galleys. Maria always brings us fresh crab and some of those hot dog things." She got to her feet and Lucki bounded off the bed and pranced around her. She patted the robot, then glanced back at him. "Clint? Thank you."

"You're welcome, but next time? Please my life a little easier and get a car rental. We’re married; you can use my credit card." He got to his feet too, and took a deep breath.

OK, he could do this.

He took another breath, then grabbed her arm before he could chicken out. "Hey, uh, Laura?"

"I know." She slid her arms around him, "I shouldn't have run. I'm sorry I worried you and Phil."

"Actually, I--well, I wanted to ask if... if you wanted me to... to, uh, you know, be there? Like, for you and the baby? I mean, we're not _married_ married, but if you need me--not that you probably will, but if you did--"

"Of course I want you to be there." Laura tipped her head back, her nose wrinkling in confusion. "We're not married-married, but we're still family now, right?"

_Family._

There was suddenly had a lump in Clint's throat and it was hard to speak. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are." He pulled her close, and after a moment, laughed, "I know 'cuz I'm wearing ugly socks."

Laura laughed too, and leaned into him, encircling him with her arms.

He hugged her back, only pulling away when she said something he didn't catch. "What?"

She bit her lip. "Do you think they can fix me?"

"The stones? I don't know--but if they can't; we'll figure something out." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "I promise."

She raised her eyes, and something twisted inside him at the trust he saw there.

"Thank you, Clint." She leaned up on her toes, kissed him on the cheek, then she walked off towards the bathroom.

Clint watched her go.

Family. As in a _family_.

Him. Her.

And a _baby._

_Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and…

He needed to pee. 

Also? Coffee. 

He patted Lucki, then headed towards the stairs. 

Fuck. He was really going to be a dad. As in a _dad._

_Fuuuuuuuuck._

~~+~~

**summer, Istanbul:**

Nat stepped onto the train platform, blinking with exhaustion. The latest leg of her journey had taken nearly two days and the train had been old and noisy, the constant rumble shaking free more memories--memories that refused to let her sleep.

She blinked again and hoisted her backpack a little higher, wincing as the motion jarred her arm. Mark was right; she should've stayed another week or two--but she couldn't afford to waste any more time.

She started toward the row of taxis, pushing her way through the swirling crowd. She caught a glimpse of another woman, just to her right, and immediately tensed.

Nat had seen the lady before, but where? She kept walking, keeping one eye on the woman while she groped through memories. 

London? 

Berlin? 

Paris? 

A young child ran to the woman, followed by a smiling man. The woman scooped up the child, and the three began chattering excitedly. 

And just like that, the woman no longer looked familiar. 

Nat stopped, confused. She'd always been the first in her class to recognize a face, even hidden under the layers of a disguise. The distance from corner of the mouth to corner of the eye, the ratio of length of forehead to length of nose, the underlying curve and flare of the cheekbone--observations that came as easy as breathing. 

Except--this time, she had been wrong.

The man slipped his arm around the woman' waist, as the child wrapped one chubby arm around her neck. The family walked off, snug in their own bubble of happiness.

Nat shook her head, and deliberately turned towards the taxis. She clearly needed a hotel and sleep. 

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, she would start hunting the next target.

~~+~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole bit about the original helmet and the red room is based very, very loosely on a real Russian legend. I don't speak Russian, but I understand Russian has undergone massive standardization since the revolution. Seems like Nat would have some pieces of the older dialects in her head.
> 
> This chapter was betaed at one point, but I did some changes, so um,not really betaed?

~~+~~

**Summer, Wyoming:**

Clint finished his business, washed his hands, and then rummaged for some aspirin for his almost-a-hangover. Whatever Coulson was cooking smelled delicious, so he opened the bathroom door--and stopped.

Lucki wagged his tail; his mouth full of tennis ball.

"No, Lucki." That was Coulson--his voice coming from the kitchen.

"No, Lucki." Clint repeated as he padded into the kitchen, and, um, jeans.

Jeans.

Coulson was wearing _jeans_.

And a gray T-shirt over _muscles._

He was also cooking sausage and doing omelette-y stuff, and Clint absolutely, positively did not have a thing for guys who _cooked._

Nope.

He crossed the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee.

Coulson folded the omelette. Expertly. "How's Laura doing?"

Clint sipped coffee, trying not to stare at Coulson' biceps. "She's doing better than I would be doing right now." Then he remembered, too late, that he was supposed to be angry with Coulson for the whole ‘surprise baby’ thing.

Except...those jeans.

And that T-shirt.

And a really nice ass.

Although, he probably shouldn’t be checking out a superior’s ass.

"I'm glad she's--" There was a chirp and Coulson pulled a cell phone from his back pocket. “Excuse me." He answered it, "Yes? Who? Of course, put him through. Hello, Mark? This is Phil. How's retirement?"

Whatever Mark said next wiped the smile off of Coulson’s face. He slid the omelette onto a plate, thumbed the mute on the phone, "l'm sorry, I have to take this."

Clint put down the cup, motioned that he would take over the cooking.

Coulson mouthed ‘Thank you' and hurried out of the room, and Clint watched the guy's ass leave in _those_ jeans.

Laura walked in at that moment. She looked at Clint, then turned her head to watch Coulson's retreating figure. She looked back at Clint, and smiled.

"It's not like that." Clint stirred the sausage, pulled out a iron griddle for the pancakes. "Besides, he's a commanding officer."

"But you like him." Laura stole a sip from his coffee cup. "Because he's hot. Maria also thinks he's hot, but she doesn't date men."

Which was way more info about Agent Hill than Clint needed--or wanted--to know. He took the sausage off the heat, put the griddle on the burner. "And last I checked, I'm married. To you."

"You could still--you know--with other people." Laura folded some paper towels, laid them on a plate, and passed the plate over. "If you wanted to.”

Clint blinked at her, then dumped the sausage on the paper towels. "Well, I don't want to have sex.”

Um. 

Shit. 

Nobody was supposed to know that he _had_ sex, but he didn’t _want_ sex. Especially the talking-cuddling-sharing crap that happened afterwards.

“I mean, uh, with other people. Here.” He handed her the sausages. “Make sure these are drained,”

"Sure." A second later, she tipped her head sideways. "What's a red room?"

"Don't eavesdrop." Clint poured pancake batter onto the griddle. "And it's just an urban legend, about some supposedly secret facility where Russian spies used to be trained."

"So it was sort of like a KGB base?" Laura was very clearly still listening to the phone conversation.

"The KGB is gone." He lowered the heat a little. "It's three agencies now; the SVR, the GRU, and the FSB. Now stop listening, and set the table. There's some more plates over there."

"OK." Instead of moving, she finished the last swallow of his coffee and leaned against the counter. "But Coulson's talking about the Red Room and the KGB--and something called the Checka? That means the Red Room still exists, right?"

He flipped the pancakes. "I don't know. It's none of my business and it's definitely none of yours."

Laura looked at him. "You said you would always tell me the truth."

"OK, fine. The Checka was started after the Revolution, and eventually became the KGB in the 50s. And Sasha, you remember him right?" He waited for her to nod. "He told me that the rumors about the Red Room were true. It was created by Lenin to destroy the White Army."

"The White Army? Who are they?”

Seriously, how had he gotten himself into this?

"Russia used to be ruled by a Tsar, which is kind of like an emperor." Clint scooted the omelette over, stacked pancakes next to it. He poured more batter on the griddle. "After the Russian people revolted, some of the army stayed loyal to the Tsar. Eventually, there was a huge civil war, and those soldiers became the White Army. Lenin and the Red Army defeated the White Army, and that ended the civil war."

Which, OK, was a half-ass way to explain the mess that was the Russian revolution.

"Is there a reason for this history lesson?" Coulson strode into the kitchen, his eyes dark with worry about something.

"Clint's distracting me, so I won't listen to your phone call." Laura answered, with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

"I see." Coulson glanced at Clint, who just shrugged and flipped the last pancakes. "We need to eat quickly--we have a… situation. There's also been a change in your assignment, Barton. I’m now your superior officer, effective immediately." He looked back over at Laura. "I’ll call Lila, fill her in on the conditioning. If anyone can explain things to the stones, she can.”

~~+~~

**Summer, Istanbul:**

The room was sweltering, the tiny window unit barely stirring the hot, muggy air.

Nat' s eyes flicked to the clock on the nightstand, back to the book she’d found in the gift shop. The shop catered to tourists, kept cheap paperbacks and over-priced sodas on its shelves. The book was a romance, torrid and badly written, and she was picking her way slowly through bulging biceps and heaving breasts--and a lot of unnecessary changing of clothes.

She took a swig of water, brushed her sweaty hair back, and read another page, grinning at the author's description of--

_Ivan had never understood her love of trashy paperbacks._

The thought came unbidden, and Nat froze for a second, then deliberately flipped to the next page.

~~+~~

**Summer, Iowa:**

Clint hugged Laura, “As soon as I can, I’ll call you. But I need you to promise me--”

“Not to run away again? I won’t.” But then she bit her lip, looking scared and uncertain.

Lucki whined and looked at Clint.

“Hey, at least give the stones a chance, OK?” He hugged her again, then dropped a kiss on her forehead, “I'll call you, OK? That way you can tell me how the chickens are doing.”

She managed a small smile and Clint reluctantly let go, headed up the ramp. By the time he got to the co-pilot's seat, Laura was already a distant figure, striding towards Lila, waiting on the porch.

For the first time in his life, Clint found himself resenting being at the beck and call of Uncle Sam, and there was a weird, hollow ache in his chest. He pulled his gaze away as Coulson engaged the engines. “So, you want to brief me on the Red Room?”

For the next few minutes, Coulson filled him in. Clint tried to follow along, but the whole story was half Russian history lesson--and half bat shit crazy.

“OK, let me make sure I got this straight. The original Red Room was in one of the Tsars' palaces, and it held a magical helmet that wiped the memories of anyone who wore it. Lenin used it so often on his enemies that the damn thing broke, which is when he ordered his scientists to create a machine that could do the same thing.”

“ _Almost_ the same thing.” Coulson checked the instruments, looked back over at him. “The Soviets discovered the machine could also copy memories, and then transfer those memories to other people. The Red Room project was at the heart of the evolution of the Checka into the KGB. The Soviets would hand select a group of children for the project, wipe their minds, and then insert the memories of already trained operatives.”

“Instant agent; just grab a kid and add memories.” Clint felt his stomach roll just thinking about it. “I'm guessing this Red Room still exists?”

“No. The project was finally shut down a decade ago.” Coulson's expression was grim. “The scientists running the project made one critical mistake. They only copied and transferred the memories of the best operatives--and the best operatives were always graduates of the Red Room. The result was--”

“Brain soup? Some poor kid gets an agent’s memories. Then the next kid gets the first kid’s memories of being an agent _and_ the first agent’s memories. Next kid gets three sets of memories. And the next kid--four sets. Rinse, wash, repeat, until the Red Room is turning these kid’s brains into soup.” He glanced back over, “So, why us, sir?”

“Us?” Coulson raised an eyebrow.

“You're telling me all of this because we're going after one of the Red Room agents, right? So, why us? If one of these kids has gone psycho from having too many memories stuffed into their skull, isn't that Russia's problem?”

“This is Natasha Romanov,” Coulson punched a button and a grainy security video came up, “and, yes, she has gone rogue. It's our problem because she is currently implementing a mission we subliminally inserted into the Red Room over thirty years ago. Which means we need to--”

“Hold up.” Clint watched the clip. A young woman with dark sunglasses bought a train ticket, never quite looking at the camera. Shit, she was young--barely twenty. “Are you telling me this machine can also transfer conditioning?”

“At the time, there were a few scientists who thought so.” Coulson tapped the screen, and the short video looped back to the beginning. “When their work yielded no results, it was assumed their theory was wrong, and the Red Room could only transfer memories.”

“Until now.” Clint studied the video, memorizing the woman's face. “Sir? What was the mission?”

“The mission was to assassinate all existing Red Room agents.” Coulson’s mouth set in a hard line, “And then assassinate the current leader of the Soviet Union.”

Clint watched the video loop again. “Shit.”

“Exactly.”

~~+~~

**Summer, Instanbul:**

For the second time that day, Nat forgot how to speak Turkish. She managed, through gestures and a mix of Arabic and English, to buy a coffee and a sticky pastry that might've been an attempt to make a Western-style cinnamon roll. 

Nat stepped back into the street, blending into the busy hustle of the crowds. For a few minutes, she just enjoyed her breakfast. Her shoulder was still a little sore, but the ache of eating the pastry was worth it--this one was heavy with sugar and cinnamon.

And then it hit her.

She'd paid with local currency. Except--she hadn't exchanged any money yet. Nat forced herself to keep walking, but now other questions began pressing in.

_Where had she gotten the money for her hotel room? And her last couple of meals?_

Nat tried to think, but nothing made sense. The only money she had was her earnings from Italy and that money would've barely covered her train ticket...

Nat finished the pastry, took a sip of coffee, trying to puzzle out how--

She was being watched.

She 'accidently' sloshed the coffee, stopped to dab at her shirt-- _there._

That man.

He'd disguised himself, adding both years and a few more pounds, but she still recognized him.

Phil Coulson.

Nat dropped her coffee, and bolted.

~~+~~

**Summer, Instanbul:**

Clay lay on the rooftop, his rifle ready, and wondered why in the fuck he’d joined SHIELD.

Sitwell was an idiot.

 _And_ he’d been ordered to use a rifle.

 _And_ it was hot. As in his-nuts-were-swimming hot.

Clint had been a sniper for years, and while he didn’t usually mind a little sweat, it was fucking _hot_ \--and his gut told him that Sitwell was definitely _wrong_.

He glanced away from the scope, saving his sight.

Sitwell said there were no Russian operatives in Istanbul. But this was the fucking _Russians_. He knew all about Russians--hell, he’d kind of accidently dated a Russian ops guy. And every Russian he knew?

Was super fucking paranoid.

Sitwell’s intel was _wrong._

If some chick was running around, offing Russian agents? Yeah, there was most definitely a team hunting her ass down. 

Clint looked back down his scope, his gaze raking the street below.

Looked back away. 

Fuck, he hated being forced to use a rifle. He got it, he did. This mission was ‘by any means necessary’, which was the polite way of saying ‘kill shot’.

He still didn’t like rifles. Also? It was too fucking hot.

Also, also, he was pretty sure he’d worked out who Mark was, the guy who called Coulson. Did SHIELD really think a retired British agent living in Spain didn’t have some agency’s eyes still on him?

So, yeah, his gut was right--there _had_ to be Russians in Instanbul.

“Barton?” Sitwell’s voice in his ear, “We have eyes on the target. Are you in position?”

_In position? What the fuck? He was a fucking professional, not some dumbass rookie._

Clint’s anger boiled over. “Yes,sir! Present, accounted for, and in a pool of sweat, sir! Just waiting for the Russians you keep saying aren’t here to pick us all off, sir!”

OK, he shouldn’t have said that last bit and yeah, he was going to get written up-- _again_ \--but the prick deserved it.

“Son of bitch, Barton! I swear--”

Clint’s earpiece began to chatter, shutting Sitwell up.

Apparently Coulson had flushed out the Red Room chick--and she was heading Clint’s way.

He snugged the rifle close, steadied his breathing, It was hot, but there was no wind--he adjusted automatically for the change in the firing arc--

The door behind him opened.

 _Fuck!_ Clint rolled unto his back, desperately swinging his rifle up.

Red Room chick stood, hand on the exit door. 

Perfect head shot--

His finger squeezed down on the trigger--and then, for the first time ever--he choked.

This wasn’t an agent. 

This wasn’t an adult, either--despite the date of birth in her file.

This was the face of a kid--a kid who was scared and confused and _hurting_.

He lowered his weapon, hit the mute on his earpiece. He was going to get reamed later by SHIELD for doing this but--

He didn’t shoot kids.

 _Nat_?” He’d memorized her file and sometimes, she’d been called Natalia, sometimes Natasha. Who she was today was anybody’s guess--from the look in her eyes, he was guessing her brain was leftover casserole. He kept talking, using Russian. _“Just so you know, it’s not a good idea to sneak up on a guy with a gun.”_

_”Where’s Ivan? I thought--he said we should meet….”_

Russian was just Russian--it didn’t really have dialects the way other languages did. But Red Room chick--Nat--was using a really weird-ass accent.

She was also holding her right arm stiffly, as if it hurt--

And then all hell broke loose as a helicopter came out of nowhere, and half a dozen Russians dropped out of the sky.

_Fuckfuckfuck! _Clint immediately fired, picking off two--and threw himself over the edge of the roof as a hail fire of bullets rained down. He landed on the balcony below, crouched.__

____

____

“Barton. Report, damnit! Do you have eyes on the target?”

_Fuck._

Clint reached up, tapping off the mute. He could hear fighting above, a muffled grunt of pain that he guessed was Nat, a man’s scream which had to be one of the Russians. 

“I’m a little bit busy with your imaginary Russians.” He took a breath, because this? Was a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ thing to do--

Clint slung the rifle over one shoulder, jumped. He touched down on the thin top rail of the balcony, immediately pushed off again, reaching up for--got it!

He swung for a moment, his hands gripping the edge of the roof. Hauled himself up, over, rolled--and was tackled by some Russian guy.

For a moment, he and Russian guy grappled, and shitfuckshit! where the _fuck_ had that knife come from? He got a hand free, punching Russian guy in the face, as he twisted--

Ow!! The knife plunged deep into his leg. Fuck!Ow!Fuck! Clint brought a elbow down hard, and Russian guy lost his handhold on Clint’s shirt. Clint twisted again, rolled--grabbed the rifle and cracked the butt against Russian guy’s skull.

Russian guy slumped, blood running from his nose, and Clint swept his rifle up--

Nat had already taken out the other three. She took one step toward him, said something unintelligible in Russian--and collapsed. He staggered up, ignoring the pain in his leg, and limped over.

“We’re going to need a clean up in aisle three--six hostiles, four don’t look too good. No sign of their helicopter.” It hurt like fuck to kneel. Nat had an ugly gash across her forehead--and oh shit, her shoulder was seriously infected. Clint wasn’t a doctor, but the red streaks and pus had to be a bad sign. 

He forced himself back to his feet, “Target is down, but still alive.”

His earpiece burst into chatter again. Clint half-listened while he scanned the sky, still looking for the Russian helicopter. A couple of minutes later, a different helicopter appeared--but this one was piloted by Hill. Then the exit door to the roof opened. Sitwell, followed by a couple of other agents.

Of course, Sitwell immediately proceeded to chew him a new one.

Clint stared down at his boots and kept quiet. If Sitwell was a little smarter, he would’ve figured out he’d muted his earpiece--which Clint could admit he deserved to be yelled at for. But no, this was Sitwell, and he was just mad because he’d been wrong about the Russians being in town, and Clint had been right.

Which meant Sitwell needed to re-establish his dominance like an animal in one of those documentary films. Which was _stupid_ , but--whatever.

“What’s going on here?” 

Clint looked up, saw Coulson had arrived--and he didn’t look too happy either. 

Clint couldn’t think of anything Coulson could be mad at him about--unless he’d figured out that Clint had muted his earpiece? Maybe that was it. 

He did the only thing he could. He kept his head down, trying to look as contrite as possible, and trudged to the helicopter.

One of the other agents stuck out a hand and Clint took it, hauled himself up. There was no seats left, so he dropped to the floor, swearing inwardly when the movement made his thigh start bleeding again.

Well, they were heading toward the ocean, which meant a ship, which meant sickbay. Clint looked down, and didn’t see too much blood on his pants, so it could wait.

It sure hurt like a son of bitch, though.

He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, let the chopper noise lull him to sleep.

~~+~~

**Summer, Venom Helicopter:**

Somebody was talking at him. Or, was it a question?

He cracked an eye open, “Hmmm?” 

He was also cold, and the floor felt slippery and sticky.

Yay. He was _still_ bleeding.

“I said, man, you must be able to sleep anywhere.” It was the agent whose name was a color--Green? Brown? Tan? 

“Hmmm.” Clint repeated, and maybe he should tell somebody he was bleeding? Except, he suspected there would be more yelling, and he was totally OK with waiting to be yelled until _after_ they landed. He closed his eyes. “Tryin’ t’ sleep.”

It worked, Green-Brown-Tan shut up and Clint let the noise lull him, once again, to sleep.

~~+~~

**Summer, USS John C Stennis:**

Something was missing. 

No chopper noise.

Clint cracked his eyes. Sickbay ceiling. 

So-- _another_ navy ship.

He started to check for holes in the ceiling--

“Hey, looks like somebody finally decided to check back in with us.” A corspman smiled down at him.

He felt odd, kind of floaty--and he was hooked up to all kinds of machines and stuff.

“See? That’s the plus side to surgery. It’s how you get the really good shit.” The guy checked an IV line, “Your superior wanted to see you when you woke up. Are you up to it? ‘Cuz, I can lie like a rug if you need me to.”

“Surgery?” 

“Yep. Had to fix the hole in your leg. What did you do--piss off a SEAL with a K-bar or something?” The corspman finished fussing with the line, handed him a cup of water with a straw. “If it makes you feel better, even the doc was impressed by your wound--and he’s seen all kinds of crazy shit. So, you want me to run your superior off?”

Clint sucked down water, shook his head. “No, I’m good. I’ll talk to him.”

“All rightie. It’s your dime.” The corpsman left, and a few minutes later, Coulson walked in.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. “I want an explanation.”

Clint stopped drinking--even though he was thirsty as shit. “Explanation, sir?”

“After the Chinese ‘incident’, you were checked out--and you had badly bruised ribs and several embedded shards of glass--which you failed to mention to anyone. Today you again failed to mention to either Sitwell or myself that you were seriously wounded.” 

Coulson crossed his arms. “I looked at your military records, and you have done this five other times, including Beijing, where you showed up at the rendezvous site with both a bullet wound _and_ a stab wound that you had not disclosed to your team.”

“I, uh, just have a high pain threshold, sir.”

“No, Agent May has a high threshold for pain. You deliberately hide or play down your injuries. So, as your superior officer, let me make this perfectly clear.”

Coulson unfolded his arms, held up a finger, “One, if you have a hunch about something, you bring it to me--especially if another agent isn’t taking you seriously.” He added a second finger, “Two, nobody yells at my agents except me. Next time somebody gets in your face, let me handle it.”

“And three,” He added a third finger, “my job is to bring you home safe. I wouldn’t send you into a situation unless you have the necessary weapons to do the job--and I expect the same courtesy from you. And yes, that includes telling me if you are hurt and _not_ putting your comm on mute.”

Clint blinked, because it had never occurred to him that Coulson--or any other superior officer--actually had a job they were trying to do. Same as him.

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. So--why did you turn off your comm?”

“I was, um, trying to talk to Natasha.” He saw the look on Coulson’s face. “Yes, she’s murdered people, but she’s not a murderer--sir. She’s just, you know, a little scrambled, kind of like--”

“Laura.” Coulson was continuing to look down at him, an odd expression on his face.

“Yeah. And like Laura, there's still a Natasha--the real Natasha--buried under all those memories the Red Room stuffed into her skull."

“You right, Clint.” Coulson nodded slowly. “I need to talk to Fury--and Lila.”

~~+~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposting this chapter because A03 is doing something wierd? Also, it has dawned on me I never explained Lila's last name. Izzy Cohen was a Jew and one of the Howling Commandos. I thought there was a certain justice is his daughter being the guardian of the most powerful object from the Nazi's occult treasures.

~~+~~

**Iowa, end of August:**

_Nat was so tired, even the usual stench of the troop carrier didn’t bother her. She half-dozed, the rumble-whine of the engines as comforting as a lullaby._

_“Looks like we’re going home, Nat.” Ivan spoke, his voice rough with exhaustion and pain._

She opened her eyes.

Clint was sitting across from her. He glanced out a window. “We’re about to land.”

Nat blinked. She could feel the Quinjet?--she thought that was the right term--descending in altitude.

She straightened, feeling the slight tug of the butterfly bandages on her forehead. The pain pills she’d taken earlier had worn off, and her shoulder ached. She reached over with her left hand, shifted the sling, but it didn’t really help.

They landed, and the ramp swung down. A woman, who looked to be no older than Nat, immediately ran up it.“Clint!”

He grabbed his crutch, hauled himself to his feet as the woman wrapped her arms around him. Clint dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Laura, this is Nat. Nat, meet my wife, Laura.”

_Wife?_

“Hi.” Laura gave her a friendly smile, “Aunt Lila has supper ready.”

~~+~~

It was a beautiful summer evening, warm but with a breeze that hinted fall was around the corner. The fields carried the scent of freshly cut hay, and the deeper, earthy scent of newly ploughed soil. Nat looked around, confused. The house ahead was clearly a farmhouse--which meant Clint hadn’t been lying yesterday.

More importantly, though, was _why_. _Why was she still free?_

It made no sense--

Clint slung an arm around his wife’s shoulders, hobbled up the steps.

Nat followed, slowing as she reached the porch, “What is this place?”

A silver-haired woman opened the door. She leaned on her cane. “It’s a safe place.”

Clint looked back over his shoulder, “Nat, meet my Aunt Lila.”

“Hello, Nat. I hope you like kotleti--yes, Clint, I also made the baked chicken you asked for.” Aunt Lila’s smile turned into a small laugh. “I’m still perfectly capable of making two main dishes.”

Nat hesitated on the threshold, then stepped inside. She looked around--and froze. This really was a home; comfortable, if a little cluttered and a little worn. Clint’s aunt led them through a living room, into the kitchen, and then the dining room.

Nat had only three things she was good at. Killing people, assessing threats and people and intel--and being able to slip into any situation, knowing just how much--or how little--of a ripple to make.

She automatically cataloged everything. A partially crocheted blanket on one end table, a magazine and a half a cup of tea on another. A fifth grade math book, tossed on the couch. The odd pile of splinters scattered near the coffee table. 

The problem was, she didn’t know what to _do_ with the info. There was nothing in her training that prepared her for spending a month--an entire month-- _here_. 

With Clint. 

And his wife and his aunt.

Nat knew she should do… something. But now she was smelling dinner, and her stomach was reminding her that lunch had been several hours ago. 

They reached the dining room, and a table full of food. Laura sat, snagged a biscuit. Nat copied her--and tried not to moan. It had been forever since she’d had a homemade biscuit. This one was perfect, tall and light and flaky.

Clint grinned down at his aunt, “What can I do to help?” 

“Sit.” She swatted him on the shoulder, “You need to stay off that leg for at least a week. And yes, I heard about that stunt you pulled--you scared Phil half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” Clint lowered himself into a chair, slipped his crutch under the table. “Oh, before I forget--” he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out two bottles of pills. He removed the lids, and set both in front of Nat. “Here, you’re supposed to take two of each.”

Nat frowned, but measured out four pills.

Clint was another problem. Nobody got past her defenses.

Nobody. 

But somehow, during the five days they were stuck in sickbay together, he’d worn her down by being…. Clint. She kept trying to tell herself it was because he’d lowered his rifle on the roof, instead of taking the head shot--and not because he stole extra pudding for her from the nurse’s station, or lured her into stupid arguments over reality TV shows. 

Laura jumped up, “I’ll grab the water.”

“You can also take the chicken out of the oven.” Aunt Lila bustled into the kitchen, “I need to pop the kotleti in the oil.”

Laura placed a pitcher of water on the table. Clint poured Nat a glass, watching to make sure she took her pills. She gave him an eyeroll, but he only smiled back.

Laura set a large pan of baked chicken in front of them, and Clint immediately speared a drumstick, put it on Nat’s plate. Added a spoonful of glazed carrots, and a larger helping of mashed potatoes. “Dig in. Trust me, there’s plenty of food.”

Nate took a bite, and yes, the chicken was just as good as the biscuit. She took a bigger bite--and smiled despite herself, when Clint made a low, happy noise. “Damn, that’s good.”

“Thank you, Clint, but please don’t swear at the table. Here’s the kotleti.” Aunt Lila placed a large plate of the bread crumb dipped meatballs in the middle of table. “I hope they’re OK, it’s been a while since I made them.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” Nat put the drumstick down, wiped her fingers on a napkin. She took two, her mouth watering at the smell. Bit into one---and half-closed her eyes. 

“That good, huh?” Clint was grinning at her again.

“These are amazing.” She took another, bigger bite, “I mean, seriously, these are some of the best I’ve ever had.”

Aunt Lila beamed at her, “I’m glad you like them. I got the recipe from a friend who was a chef at the Moscow Embassy. I’ll have to dig up some of the other recipes.”

It wasn’t the words--it was the genuine warmth behind them. Nat glanced over, met Laura’s friendly gaze. All three of them, Clint and his aunt and his wife, they seemed to...care. 

And Nat suddenly realized she had nothing left. 

Ever since Oslo, she’d been running full tilt, trying to fight the Red Room on her own. She’d always half-expected it to end with a bullet to the head--or being disappeared into the black hole of a military prison. Instead, she found herself being given medical treatment, and an offer of a job if she stayed here for a month.

It didn’t make sense--but she was simply too exhausted to keep fighting against the unexpected kindness.

She smiled at Aunt Lila, the first real smile she’d given anyone in a very long time. “Thank you.”

~~+~~

“Clint?”

He was stretched out on the couch, leg propped on a pillow, half-dozing. “Hmmm?”

“You should go to bed.” Aunt Lila patted his good leg. “We can fold out the couch if you don’t think you can--”

“ I got it.” Laura walked over, and scooped him up. Easily. 

“Um.” Which seemed a reasonable thing to say.

“Don’t worry, Nat went to bed an hour ago.” Laura carried him to the foot of the stairs. “Night, Aunt Lila.”

“Night, Laura.” Aunt Lila’s voice was shaking with laughter. “Night, Clint.”

At least Laura was breathing a _little_ heavier when they got to the top of the stairs. She crossed the hall to her room, lowered him to the bed. She went over, closed the door. “When do you think we should tell Nat about me? And should we tell her about the stones?”

“I think we play it by ear. I mean, it’s not like there’s ever a good time to say my wife’s got claws.” He paused to consider that he was now kind of mostly OK with his wife having claws. Mostly.

“Yeah, but we can’t keep Lucki locked up for a whole month.” Laura shimmied out her clothes, started to pull on her pajamas. Stopped. “Oops. Sorry?”

“It’s OK.” He took off his shirt, decided removing his sweatpants were too much bother. He hauled himself up. 

Ow. Stupid leg, stupid Russian guy.

He folded back the bedcovers, got in, hissing when he jostled his sore leg. “I see you finally mastered making a bed.”

“Yeah, and laundry.” Laura scrunched her nose up. She grabbed the pillow from the rocker in the corner, handed it to him. “Clint?”

He stuffed it under his leg. “Yeah?”

“The stones fixed me, like Phil said they would.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I… I don’t think I can be a soldier anymore. It’s not the same, now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to be a mom, right?” He fumbled through his answer, because he wished this shit could just be simple. “And I’ll do the soldier stuff for both of us.”

Laura slipped in beside him, put her head on his chest. “Do you really think they’re going to give us our baby?” 

“I do.” He slid an arm around her. Deep down, he suspected that raising a Nazi super baby was going to require super human strength and crazy fast reflexes--which made Laura the best candidate for the job. He still wasn’t exactly sure where that left him.

Or when Laura decided he was sleeping in her bed.

It was kind of nice, though. 

In a married-not-married way.

“And since I’m home for a month, we can start fixing up the nursery.”

Laura snuggled closer, “Lila’s going to kill you if you don’t take it easy.”

“I’m supposed to stay off my leg for a week--that’s two more days. Which means we can drive into town on Thursday, pick up paint.” He brushed her hair back with his other hand. “Come on, you got to have a color you want for the nursery.”

“A blue and green.” He could feel Laura relaxing under his touch. “And I want animals on the walls. Elephants and giraffes.” 

“You mean, like an aqua color?” He could feel her nod. “OK. We could get a white crib and white changing table--and I could paint that rocker to match.”

“Aqua and white would be nice. And maybe one of those things that dangles above a crib?”

Clint smiled, “A mobile? Yeah, sure, we can get one of those, too.”

~~+~~

**Iowa, three days later:**

The smell of coffee pulled Nat from sleep. She rolled over, wincing as her shoulder protested. Lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

She still wasn’t dreaming. No, she _was_ dreaming--just not about the Red Room. 

Or Ivan.

Instead, she’d had dreamed about the farm, and hunting eggs in the chicken coop.

Nat shook her head, half-smiling at the sheer silliness of the dream, pulled herself out of bed, padded to the bathroom. She relieved herself, then checked her shoulder in the mirror. She was going to have more scars. The original knife wound, the longer incision from the surgery, the smaller incision from the drain to get rid of the infection.

She was supposed to leave the sling off today and start doing her exercises. She moved her shoulder cautiously, winced again. Maybe she could at least get a T-shirt on? She was tired of living in baggy button-down shirts. 

Nat went over to the dresser, checking the clothes Laura had loaned her. She found a T-shirt, and managed, with a few swear words, to get into it. She pulled on jeans, and went downstairs.

She walked into the dining room, her eyes widening at the large stack of French toast.

“Here you go. Extra milk.” Laura set a cup of coffee in front of Clint, “You want a cup?”

Nat nodded, “Yes, please.”

A moment later Laura set a mug in front of her, slid into the chair next to Clint. Clint and Laura looked at each other. 

Clint spoke first. “Laura has something she wants to tell you.”

“OK.” Nat spooned sugar in her cup.

“I think you should know that--” Laura bit her lip, “I’m a clone. Of a super soldier.” She suddenly reached forward, so fast it was almost a blur, skewered two pieces of French toast on a metal claw--and dropped the slices on her plate.

Nat dropped the spoon.

“Laura!” Aunt Lila set a bowl of scrambled eggs on the table. “What have I said about claws at the table?” 

“Sorry.” Laura ducked her head, and there were two small flecks of blood on the knuckles of her right hand, where the claws had just been. “But Nat wasn’t going to believe me unless I showed her.”

“You’re---a clone.” Nat sat back in her chair, not quite sure if she _did_ believe it. “With claws.”

Although… she’d noticed Laura had a very healthy appetite, and she sometimes seemed weirdly awkward, as if she wasn’t used to talking to people she didn’t know well. And strong. Like yesterday, when Laura had picked up one end of the couch, with an easy carelessness, to get a pen she’d dropped.

Clint took a sip of coffee, talking as casually as if he was mentioning the weather. “It’s no crazier than a machine that mind wipes a kid, then downloads other memories into that kid’s skull.”

“I’ve killed people, too.” Laura raised her head, “But it’s not who I am now.”

“That’s right.” Aunt Lila put a hand on Laura’s shoulder, squeezed. “In this house, we believe in second chances. I’ve got to check the sausages.”

Clint watched her hurry into to the kitchen. He turned his gaze back to Nat. “Aunt Lila is a retired SHIELD agent. And, um, talking about second chances, I’m a convicted murderer. SHIELD pulled me out of Ryker.”

_Clone._

_Retired agent._

_Convicted murderer._

Nat slowly reached for the spoon she’d dropped. 

“So, uh, yeah.” Clint scooped eggs onto his plate, then put another scoop on Nat’s plate. “Laura and I, we, um, thought--well, that you should get to actually know us for a couple of days--before we told you about, um, everything.”

“And Coulson knows about all of this.” Nat picked up her coffee, because she really needed caffeine to process it all.

She also felt an odd sense of… relief. For the past three days, she’d been trying to figure out how she was going to spend an entire month here, with _normal_ people.

She eyed Clint over her cup, “Is there anything else I should know?”

Clint and Laura looked at each other again. Clint shrugged. “We’re going to drive into town after breakfast to get paint for the nursery. We’re adopting, and the baby should be born around December. You’re welcome to come along.”

“And we also need to introduce you to our dog.” Laura took a bite of French toast. “He’s a robot.”

~~+~~

**Iowa, Mid-September:**

Nat had thought painting the nursery meant painting the nursery. It turned out that nothing was ever _that_ simple in an old house. It took a week to just get the room ready to be painted.

There were a couple of cracks in the plaster that needed to be stabilized with plaster buttons, then fresh plaster skimmed onto the walls. Moldings, baseboards and both doors all had to be removed, the hardware cleaned and the old layers of paint scraped off. 

The sash on one window needed to be repaired, the other window needed a couple of new panes of glass. The light fixture was replaced with a more authentic looking fixture, and all three electrical outlets were upgraded to safer GFCI outlets.

Once all that was done, it took another four days to paint the ceiling and the walls, and two more days to paint the moldings and baseboards and doors, and reinstall everything.

“That’s the last one.” Clint handed the drill to Laura. “Probably overkill to use anchors, but I don’t trust nails in plaster.”

He hobbled to the other wall, leaned against it, and slid down until his butt hit the floor. 

Nat watched Laura hang the first picture, a silly print of an elephant, holding an umbrella. Then she walked over, “You OK?”

“I’m fine.” He tipped his head back, a small grimace of pain flicking across his face. “I’ve just been standing too long. Almost like I got stabbed, or something.”

“It looks really good.” Nat sat down next to him, careful to sit on his non-deaf side, and stretched her legs out. She was sore, and her shoulder ached, but there was also a satisfying sense of accomplishment when she looked around the nursery. “You learned all this by fixing up a cabin?”

“That, and I used to be in this foster home, and the maintenance guy let me tag along after him.” Clint’s voice was quiet. “His name was Casey Cooper--he also taught me how to read. About two years after I bought the cabin, I did some checking. He passed away right after me and my brother left. He had a massive heart attack.”

Nat waved a hand at the room. “So, this is his legacy.”

“Yeah.” Clint’s lips curled into a small smile. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Lucki trotted into the room with a piece of firewood. The robot flopped down beside Nat, started happily chewing it to splinters. Laura, meanwhile, continued hanging the other pictures; all absurd portraits of animals.

She glanced back at Clint. “Can I ask a question?”

He nodded.

“Why do you have an armed robot?”

His mouth quirked up. ”Would you believe me if I said it has to do with magic?”

“Magic?” She raised an eyebrow.

“The farm is magical, so Howard Stark programmed Lucki to protect this place during WWII.” He laughed. “I know, but I swear, I’m not making it up. Besides, you’ve been here for over two weeks now. Haven’t you noticed this place is--”

“Magical?” Nat settled against the wall. She knew the Red Room had stopped haunted her--and that was certainly a gift in itself. And, for the first time in her life, she had friends; people she actually trusted.

“What do you think?” Laura stepped back.

”I think the pictures are perfect, and I think I need lunch and--” Clint sighed, “I think I’m going to need help getting off this floor.”

~~+~~

**Iowa, Mid-September:**

Nat settled into the back seat of Aunt Lila’s enormous Ford.

Laura slid in beside her, and immediately dropped her head on Nat’s good shoulder. She was even more clueless than Clint when it came to personal space. “I ate way too many cookies.”

“Me, too.” Nat had to admit Clint and Laura were right--bingo was a lot of fun. Although, pretty much anything she did with Clint and Laura was fun--even patching plaster and stripping paint from doors. “Thanks for dragging me along.”

“You’re welcome.” Laura yawned, and snuggled closer. 

Nat found herself yawning, too. “Stop that. It’s catching.”

Laura gave a small huff of laughter, and Nat gave up. She leaned into the welcome warmth of Laura’s body, and closed her eyes. Let the purr of the engine and Laura’s soft breathing lull her to sleep.

~~+~~

**Iowa, Late-September:**

It was a crisp fall morning. The farm had turned overnight into a blaze of autumn colors, and a flock of Canadian geese had taken up temporary residence in the small pond beyond the old apple orchard.

Nat was curled in the porch swing, devouring another chapter. It was the improbable kind of romance she loved--she was only six chapters in, and already four different mishaps had forced the heroine to rely on the rakish, but handsome hero.

“Lucki, come here.”

Nat raised her eyes, tucking a finger in the book to mark her place. 

“No, get over here.” Clint was walking up from the barn, grumbling at the robot. ”No, Lucki, we’re _not_ going to the pond.”

It struck her then that they only had another six days.

Clint looked happy, well-rested--and he’d had stopped limping a couple of days ago. Nat wasn’t sure if she was happy--but she was… content. And her shoulder only twinged now and then.

She waited until Clint was at the porch steps. “How’s the dresser coming?” 

“Sanded and primed. I’ll paint it after lunch.” Clint stopped. “You stole my book _and_ my sweater?”

Nat put the book down, stood up, “Maybe?”

So, I’m working--and you’re stealing my stuff.” Clint dropped an arm over her shoulders, as they walked inside. “I might have to rethink this whole ‘friend’ thing.”

She slipped an arm around his waist. “Can I redeem myself by helping you paint?”

“I’ll consider it.” Clint teased back, as they walked into the kitchen. “Wow. That smells amazing.”

“It's chicken tortilla soup.” Aunt Lila turned--and smiled at them.

“And biscuits. Which I made.” Laura said at the same time--and also smiled at them.

It was only then Nat realized she and Clint had their arms around each other. Which had just sort of... happened.

“Well, we need to taste test these biscuits.” Clint reached for a biscuit with his free hand, handed it to her--and grabbed a second one for himself. “What do you think?”

Nat leaned into him, took a bite. Made a show of chewing. “Not bad. I think you maybe should keep her.”

Laura crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “Maybe?”

“You’re probably right.” Clint winked at Nat. “She _is_ kind of useful.”

Nat grinned back, “She is--especially when it comes to lifting heavy stuff.”

~~+~~

**Washington D.C. one week later:**

“Come in.” Phil looked up at the knock on his open door.

It was Natasha Romanov, and beside her, Clint Barton. They walked into his office together, their steps perfectly in sync.

Huh.

Phil locked the screen, and leaned back in his chair. If there was ever proof he should listen to Barton and his hunches, she was standing in front of him. 

The Natasha Romanov they’d captured in Turkey had been a wreck, mentally and physically. _This_ Natasha Romanov reminded him of a well-hone knife--graceful, balanced, and very, very deadly. 

More importantly--for his purposes--was the way Romanov and Barton stood side by side, shoulders almost bumping.

“I’d like to take you up on your offer.” Natasha spoke in a perfect Midwest accent. “If it still stands.”

“It does. You’ll need to pass a physical, and there’s a couple of firearms certification requirements.” He reached into a drawer, pulled out the already prepared folder. “And I’m afraid we have to make you sit through some orientation videos.”

“The one about dental sucks.” Barton muttered, then added, “Sir.” when Phil looked at him.

“I have one condition,” Romanov’s gaze met Barton’s, “sir.”

Phil was amused, but he kept his face neutral. “Which is?”

Barton answered for both of them,“We take our vacations at the same time--”

“And that includes when the baby comes.” Romanov finished.

Phil could only imagine how much trouble their request was going to make for him--HR tended to frown on both fraternization _and_ preferential treatment. 

He also almost--almost--felt sorry for any bad guys he sicced these two on.

“Done.” He fished a pen from the cup on his desk, slid the paperwork over. “And yes, you have to watch the video on the dental plan.”

~~+~~

**Epilogue: Iowa, late December:**

The romance Nat was reading was so bad, she plowed through it in record time. She closed the book, and then--simply sat there. Breathing in her new favorite smell--pine.

They'd driven into town yesterday, come home with a Christmas tree lashed to the top of the car. They'd spent the entire evening eating cookies, listening to Aunt Lila's Christmas records, and decorating the tree. And Nat had shocked herself by enjoying every single minute of it.

Aunt Lila laid her crocheting in her lap. “Phil’s early.”

Clint jumped to his feet, held out his hands. “Come on.” 

Nat looked at Laura, and they took his hands at the same time. A moment later, they were standing together on the porch, watching a black SUV wind its way down the long drive.

Coulson parked, got out. He opened the back door, began messing around with a baby car seat. Nat could feel Clint’s hand tighten--

Coulson straightened and Nat simply stared. Coulson was cradling a _tiny_ bundle, wrapped in white and yellow blankets. He walked up the steps, and Clint let go of Nat's hand to open the door.

"No," Coulson held the baby out to Laura, "It's your home."

She took him and immediately cradled him close, her face softening. "Hi, Cooper.”

Clint slipped an arm around her, and they went inside. Nat mouthed a "thank you" at Coulson and followed.

And stopped when she saw the Christmas tree. That's when it hit her.

_This was why SHIELD was important._

Sure, Cooper might be another experiment. Like her. And like Laura. But working for SHIELD was Nat's chance to make sure he had a safe, _normal_ childhood. Or, at least, normal for a kid who had Clint and Laura as parents. There was still the claws and the robot dog...and the farm.

Which she was beginning to suspect _might_ actually be magical.

"Nat?" Clint was holding Cooper, and he had a really goofy look on his face, "It's your turn."

She immediately put her arms behind her back, "No, I couldn't--"

"Yes. You're his aunt--and besides, we expect you to babysit." He held Cooper out--and Nat took him. 

Cooper was even tinier than she expected. She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, glanced up, "Clint, he's..."

"Yeah." He pulled her close, and Laura wrapped an arm around Nat's waist, the three of them forming a wall around their baby. "Yeah, I know." 

~~Finis~~


End file.
